


Trinkets to Kill a Prince

by silhouette (thiefless)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Afghanistan, Aged-Up Peter Parker, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Peter Parker, First Kiss, Guilty Tony Stark, Iron Man 1, Loss of Powers, Nightmares, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26240038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiefless/pseuds/silhouette
Summary: “Pepper, I'm doing a weapons presentation. Ineeda good photographer.” He clicked his fingers, already bored with the conversation. “What about that kid who takes the good pictures of Spider-Man, the one from theDaily Bugle?”AU: Tony wasn't the only one kidnapped in Afghanistan.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 103
Kudos: 492





	1. Merchant of Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! So, I've had this idea for a while now and I finally decided to just write it all down. This is an AU in which Tony and a female Peter Parker are both captured in Afghanistan. 
> 
> My rendition of fem!Peter is an amalgamation of both the MCU and Sam Reimi trilogy (and a little bit from the comics, too). Peter Parker will now be known as Peta Parker.
> 
> I labelled the story as Explicit, although the actual smut won't happen until chapter four. At this point, the tag is purely precautionary. I'll be adding a couple more tags as the story progresses.
> 
> Anyway. I'm gonna shut up now, and just get on with the story. I hope you guys enjoy it! :)

The way it started was this: Tony was required to present his brand-spankin'-new Jericho missile for the U.S. Army. Consequentially, he needed to look as fabulous as possible. Consequentially, he needed a mighty fine photographer. 

And he knew just where to hire one.

Summoning his angel of a P.A. down to the underground of his lab, Tony made sure his wishes would be granted.

“Pepper, I'm doing a weapons presentation. I _need_ a good photographer.” He clicked his fingers, already bored with the conversation. “What about that kid who takes the good pictures of Spider-Man, the one from the _Daily Bugle?”_

Pepper sighed, damned to a life of eternal exasperation with Tony at the helm. “Eddie Brock?”

“No, no, no. I said the ‘good’ pictures.” His fingers sliced through the air dismissively. “Isn't it Parker, or something?”

The diluted sound of pen scratching on paper filled the room. “I'll make the call,” Pepper said after a decisive beat. She clicked the pen. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

Tony remembered his courtesies. “Yes, thank you, Ms. Potts.”

Her heels clicked as she made her swift exit from his personal domain, the sound of her phone typing already clear. Pepper was professional in a way most could only ever dream of – Tony especially. He didn't know what the hell he would do without her. 

Tony hummed AC/DC as he perfected the finishing touches on his seventh favourite car, tuning the rest of the world out for the time being. 

* * *

T-minus thirty hours until **Judgement Day.**

Tony strolled up to his private jet, dazzling his Rhodey with a shiny, white smile, turning flirtatious when his eyes landed on the gorgeous twentysomething to his left. The photographer he'd been dying to get his hands on ever since he found out about Spider-Man – and said photographer's aesthetic appearance didn't hurt, either. Even the slightly oversized t-shirt and jacket were cute as fuck on her.

Ignoring Rhodey's reprimands, he diverted his attention to the woman in question. He held out his hand. “Welcome, Ms. _Daily Bugle_ ,” he drawled. “You got a name?”

“It's Peta, sir. Peta Parker.” Her hand was warm in his, firmer than he would have thought. “Like the animal rights organisation.”

“Peta, huh?” Tony clicked his tongue. “Lemme guess: you were an oops-wrong-sex baby, am I right?”

Peta smiled like she was stunned, letting his hand fall away. Tony could sympathise; he had that way with people. “Yeah. I just– didn't know that was a thing, wow.”

Tony would have said more except Rhodey's head looked like it spontaneously explode, so he ushered her in to his mighty fine, state-of-the-art jet. 

Tony took a seat. Rhodey immediately sat opposite him, seemingly declaring himself Tony's gatekeeper. Peta sat on the opposite table.

He picked up this morning's issue of the _Daily Bugle_ one of the flight attendants must have left – and lo and behold, a certain arachnid-themed vigilante was dead front and centre:

_NEW YORK'S MOST DANGEROUS VIGILANTE: TOO DANGEROUS TO KEEP ALIVE?_

He whistled. “Nice picture, kid. Really brings out the red-and-blue.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, a flat, discordant note in the mix.

Rhodey began chastising him for his tardiness, unperturbed by their company. As per usual, Tony did the very adult thing of ignoring him outright.

“Hey, kid, you want some sake?” Nobody could ever accuse Tony of not sharing. 

“No, thank you,” Peta replied, earnestly polite even when she had to be overwhelmed by the sheer grandeur of his little trinkets. “I'm only twenty.”

Yeah, Tony didn't miss the warning, reproachful look Rhodey hurled his way. He was almost offended. Who did his best friend think he was?

Unfortunately, the answer to that question was nullified when the flight attendants opted to then do the work they were hired to do and flirt relentlessly with them. This was not how the plan was supposed to go. Rhodey was supposed to be on the verge of being plastered before they started dancing, and he'd all but forgotten Ms. Parker was attending. Crap. Multi-tasking had its drawbacks. 

Not to worry, though. What he lacked in preparation, he made up for with quick decision making. 

With whip-smart thinking, he escorted Rhodey into one of the luxury bedrooms sequestered at the back of the plane – a feather bed was the perfect conduit for joining the mile-high club – shepherding the ladies to join him. He could certainly use the break. Rhodey was all business. He needed to let off a little steam. 

There, see? Everything was under control. Tony was a master at it.

Moreover, he had a streak to maintain – _Vanity Fair_ last night, intending to get the _Daily Bugle_ now. Briefly, he considered if he could bang one person from each newspaper. Man, that was a challenge he would be more than happy to accept. 

“On a scale of one to ten, how awkward is this right now?”

His opening line had the intended reaction: a hint of an emancipated smile. He could work with that. 

“Mind if I sit here?”

Peta gestured haphazardly, putting her camera to the side. “No, go ahead. I mean– you own it, right?”

That he did. 

His eyes noticed her tense posture, the way her hands dug into the armrests at either side. He wasn't so completely egotistic as to assume her reaction was all his doing – although, he was going to let his pheromones take some credit. 

“Not a fan of flying?”

“No, I, uh. My parents died in a plane crash when I was little, and I was kind of...” she floundered ... “ _on_ a plane that crashed.” Unusual preposition, but Tony was gonna let it slide. For now, anyway. She had cute eyes.

Early parental death was something they had in common, but not even Tony was so vulgar as to use their shared tragic backstory as a bad flirting device. 

Instead, he opted to discuss Stark Industries' aviation safety. With any luck, he'd be able to squeeze in a reference to the mile-high club. Maybe offer her an initiation. 

“Allow me to put your mind at ease,” he said, allowing the words to blend together in seamless harmony, angling his body to hers. Body language was conducive to a successful pick-up, it was kind of his superpower. He listed several key, ultra-modern security protocols and technological advances – ones he personally pioneered, just to add that intimate touch – finalising his argument with the zero number of fatalities or incidents involved with his jets.

“The Vulture incident notwithstanding,” Peta interjected, teasing. 

Tony coughed. Damn, he forgot about that one. “Yes, well. Technically, that was never a fault with the plane itself – and you'll be pleased to know I paid compensation for the damages acquired.” Out of the goodness of his heart. “How old were you when all that was going down, anyway?”

“Fifteen.” There was something buried in her eyes there, something Tony lacked the fortitude to decode. “I was fifteen.”

Moving swiftly on. Subtracting the two hours spent making inane small talk before sequestering Rhodey and his lady friends to another room, they had about thirteen hours left on the flight, and Tony intended to put every second to good use.

Because he was genuinely curious, “How do you get Spider-Man to pose for you?”

Mischief twinkled in her eyes. Leaning forward as though spilling the greatest secret known to man, she whispered, innocently alluring, “I suck his cock.”

Tony's grin was a wonder to behold. “Fancy showing me?”

Peta sputtered, drawing back. Hm. He pressed his luck too soon. No matter. He was confident in his abilities. “We can't.”

“Why not?” His voice was just the right side of sleazy. “I have a reputation for a reason. Ask anyone.”

Amusement laced her facial features as she reiterated, “We can't.”

That wasn't a no. Tony voiced as much. “Why not?”

After what appeared to be a pretty intense moment of deliberation, Peta explained with a sobering, “Look, this is how it'll go down – we have sex. You'll be utterly enthralled by the way I look as I cross over the edge; you can't help but follow me through.”

Tony smirked. Oh, he enjoyed what he was hearing. Very much.

Peta wasn't finished: “The second after you come, you'll be struck by an epiphany: holy crap, I'm the love of your life. Your soulmate is some girl from Queens, New York who takes some, frankly, _amazing_ Spider-Man pictures.”

Unlikely. Hearing this, Tony cocked his brow, relaxing into the firm softness of his chair.

Seemingly taking great pleasure in messing with him, Peta continued, rapturous smile forming, “At this point, I've awoken something dormant inside you – something you never thought possible – and now it's malignant, metastasising. You'll try to resist; you'll push me away in an act of self-sabotage and chase after anything with pulse. Your work at Stark Industries will plummet. You'll have a thousand one-night stands to prove that you are still the cool, unattached playboy, but all they all do is fill you with deep, abiding emptiness 'cause I'm not them. You'll see my face in everyone else's; you'll hear my voice in your sleep. It's not even about sex. In fact, you'd be perfectly content to be sexless for the rest of your life because just being in my presence is orgasm enough.” Peta sighed, disappointed by the imaginary counterpart she'd concocted, concluding with a firm, “I'm under your skin and there ain't no escaping me.”

Well, now. That was a thrilling story. Completely inaccurate, of course, but still – even his Greek tragic doppelgänger sounded sexy. 

Tony hummed, digesting. “So, my choices are either: a) I fuck you and become pussy-whipped, or b) we just sit here and talk science and I retain my autonomy.” He paused. “Really? Just those two options?”

“Yep. I'm precognitive.” She grinned. “I try to use my powers for good.”

Tony considered her assumption in good humour. “Alternatively,” he posited as though he'd made a great hypothesis in the scientific field, “you could just get on your knees and suck my dick.”

Peta laughed, no ounce of self-consciousness present. He chuckled along with her. 

“Seriously,” he joked, aware that he may have to take his time, “the offer's always open. Don't limit yourself to Spider-Man. Besides, anyone could be Spider-Man. _I_ could be Spider-Man,” Tony posited charmingly. 

Peta choked. “Really?”

Wow. Not the reaction that line usually garnered. “Oh, absolutely. That's why I stopped Adrian Toomes from selling my weapons. I crashed my own jet on Coney Island.” The seat creaked ever so slightly under the depression of his weight. “I'm very responsible when I want to be.”

“Uh huh.” Her smile was a teasing menace, and Tony instantly wanted to devour it. “What's the success rate of that line?”

“You'd be surprised,” he muttered through a smirk. “Most believe it.”

“They do, do they?”

“Oh, yeah. Spidey's an unattached recluse who dashes about solving crime and keeping the streets of his city safe.” He waved a hand. “We're not that dissimilar.”

She paused. “Unattached?”

“Yes,” Tony confirmed like it was obvious. “For a guy to voluntarily throw himself in the line of duty – facing gunshots, stab wounds, you name it – means he's a loner. Nobody would miss him if he died. No friends, no family, nothing.” Someone call Sherlock Holmes, tell him his powers of deduction had been outclassed. 

“I guess,” Peta replied after a beat. Her tone was soft. Sad. Fuck, that wasn't his intention at all. Before he could divert the attention to safer grounds, she shook her head, and gave him a playful look. “If you really are Spider-Man, then what's the formula for his webbing?”

Well, well, well. Now she was talking. It'd been a while since Tony had to work for it, and he was more than happy to oblige. Flexing his scientific prowess always did produce the very best of results. What could he say? Intelligence was sexy. 

Worn-in hands scribbled the equation he had been working on since Spidey tanked his jet all those years ago on a stray napkin, pushing it toward Spidey's photographer and then sitting back, insufferably content as her eyes raked the evidence of his genius.

He watched with keen interest as her face slackened in shock. “This is. I mean, this.” He watched as she lifted her head, giving him full view of those baby browns blown wide. “Impressive.”

Tony would like it stated on record that he tried to reign in the arrogance. Key word being: _tried_. “I have a knack for developing impressive feats.”

However, she took one last look at his work in progress, and grinned. “It's completely wrong, of course. If this were correct, then the tensile strength would be no better than iron. You and I both know that Spider-Man's is off-the-charts.”

She handed the napkin back. 

Dumbfounded, he pocketed the offending material. “I'm still ironing out a few kinks.”

Peta nodded, smile still pulling up her lips.

He narrowed his eyes. “So, you have a scientific background, too, huh?”

Her mirth faltered. “I attended ESU a couple years back. Biophys. But I– college didn't agree with me.”

Tony cocked a brow. “Biophys, huh? What's your speciality?”

No trace of shame was evident as she quietly but proudly answered, “Dumpster diving.”

O-kay. “Can't say I've ever been certified in dumpster diving.”

Peta laughed again. Objectively, he observed – _it was a nice laugh._

Tony leaned in, desperate to wrench more of those sounds from her. 

“Kid, what do you think about the practical applications of biotechnology?”

Peta chuckled, amused. “I think calling me _kid_ when you're trying to hit on me isn't the best idea.”

“Point taken.”

Her smile as she recited her opinion concerning the benefits and drawbacks of biotechnology was almost better than sex. 

Respect the qualifier: _almost_.

* * *

Over the next thirteen hours, they tossed ideas back and forth. It was actually rather pleasant. Tony couldn't recall the last time he'd simply engaged in logistical debate without any physical engagement. That wasn't to say that the atmosphere was free from any and all form of sexual provocation – particularly not on his end. Far from it. Tony could practically smell the sexual tension, but he didn't want to rush it. This felt... different. 

It was just taking him a little while to figure out whether the _different_ was good or bad. 

The problems arose when Tony opened his mouth, and irrevocably changed the mood. 

In a rare show of self-examination, he decided to bite the proverbial bullet and ask this photographer, “What do you think about my weapons development?”

The light-hearted atmosphere that blanketed them shifted, thickened – though a being of higher power ripped the covers off them and threw them into the cold, hard world they called home. 

“I think that with great power comes great responsibility,” she said diplomatically. 

See, Tony was well-versed in subtext. He could read her lips, hear the words behind her faux neutral stance. “Are you saying that I'm irresponsible?”

Her face was a blank slate. “Are you?” The aggravating response set his teeth on edge.

Tony stifled the sigh that tried to smuggle its way out. This was a bad idea. “If you're planning to harp on about the whole Merchant of Death thing, you may as well whip out your Dictaphone and get it over with.” The results of that seduction tactic had been outstanding, as Christine Everhart would surely attest to. Seriously, go and ask her. 

“I'm not a reporter, Mr. Stark,” she said, sounding almost disgusted by the insinuation. Intriguing.

“That's what they all say,” he said, deflecting the attention off of him. Immature was his middle name. “Go ahead. I can't wait to read what you have to say in the morning's edition of the _Bugle_.” Who knew, maybe he'd even surpass Spider-Man as the most vilified piece of the century. Tony did so love to overachieve.

Peta didn't take kindly to his bitter words. “Screw what the press thinks – they'd sooner crucify you than print an absolution. Screw what other people think; hell, screw what _I_ think.” Passion burned her oral speech. Not quite the kind of oral Tony was gunning for, but whatever. “At the end of the day, only you can decide that ‘cause you're the only one who has to live with the answer.”

Peta concluded her spiel with a sort of wistful nostalgia – a sad flavour. However, Tony refused to share in her emotional vulnerability. It was unnerving. She was unnerving. He felt strangely vulnerable as the sound waves dissolved into the atmosphere around them, and if there was one thing Tony hated, it was vulnerability.

The sun was coming up. It was around about now that Tony regretted not taking advantage of the flight attendants he'd actually paid for when he had the chance. Evidently, Ms. _Daily Bugl_ e had some issues she needed to sort out going by her little monologue.

“Wow.” Tony smirked. “If I wanted a lecture that bad, I'd dig up my dead old dad.” He arched a brow, augmenting his defensive shield with stone-cold condescension, deliberately riling her up. Hey, he wasn't proud – it was reflexive. “Got that off your chest?”

Peta frowned. He could see her jaw clench and knew his words hit their mark. “You asked.”

He rubbed at his temple. “You ever heard of kissing ass?”

“You ever heard of _being_ an ass?” she retorted. Sarcasm drenched every syllable straight from the source.

Nice, mused Tony. Looked like this ‘nobody from Queens’ – to coin her phrase – had some snark in her.

“Sweetheart, I'm always being an ass. That's nothin' new.”

Peta had little to say in retaliation. Victory tasted like ash in his mouth. 

“We're about to make our final approach,” one of the flight attendants said. “If you would like to take your seats.”

Tony acknowledged her with lazy nod. Peta offered her thanks.

Afghanistan was looming. Ah, now that was more like it. Blowing shit up always got his heart pumpin’.

Glancing down at Peta's science pun t-shirt and baggy jacket, he said, “You might want to change into something appropriate.” It came out with more malice than he anticipated, but his apology died on his tongue. 

Rising from his seat, he stalked away, leaving Peta in the dust.

* * *

The Jericho presentation was a perfect success, if he did say so himself. He assumed an imperious pose as the bomb was deployed behind him, winking as Peta took the photo, the click of the camera so microcosmic in comparison to the roaring of his baby. That shot better make front page. 

Tony was rocking his suit. Peta wasn't looking too bad, either. 

After she'd taken the proprietary pictures for her boss, they all headed back to base. Tony held the door open for her. Chivalry wasn't completely dead. 

As to be expected, Rhodey offered Peta a ride back to base with him, obviously not trusting Tony to keep his hands to himself. 

The smile Peta gifted Rhodey was probably the most genuine one she had flaunted all day. No, Tony wasn't going to take that personally, for your information. “Thank you for the offer, Colonel Rhodes, but I think Mr. Jameson would have my ass if I didn't tail Mr. Stark.”

“Play your cards right, and I could be down for a bit of chasing tail myself later on,” Tony murmured seductively, still smarting from their earlier discussion, as she made to get in. The second it left his mouth, he instantly regretted the sleazy remark; he had never before been so forward. 

Peta shot him a small smile, although it was verging on compassion more than anything else; not even a hint of filth prominent. Definitely not his cup of tea at all. She looked at him like she knew something he didn't, and that was just–

Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. 

Fuck. He really should have just gotten jiggy with the flight attendants. 

In spite of the mixed bag of emotions Peta's mere presence beside him wrought, the fun-vee was, as the name evoked, fun. He bantered with the soldiers, fielded questions, posed as a feature for a Myspace profile picture – Peta sandwiched in the middle, feeling her body close against his, heads a hairsbreadth from meeting–

–and time _glitched_. 

The Humvee in front of them exploding precipitated Tony dropping his glass of whiskey, the contents splashing against Peta's leg. In a far-distant corner of his mind, he registered the sound the ice made as it tinkled to the floor, instantly capitulating under the Afghan heat and gunpowder. The glass shattered on impact.

Powerless on an instinctive level, Tony reacted in accordance with the adrenaline replacing his bloodstream. His arms came to rest around Peta, shielding her from literal mortar fire: an arm about her waist, one wrapped tight around her head, tethering her to him. He could feel her try and escape – a spider caught in a glass jar – but he was a Stark and Stark men were made of iron. He refused to budge. Out of his periphery, he could see the full-blown look of shock dawn on her face, eyes glued to him as she raked his expression for clues as to why this was happening. 

Tony couldn't respond even if he wanted to.

Despite every desire he had to fight alongside them, to actively help the soldiers he put in harm's way, his greater need was to protect her. It took precedence over everything. It was the most important task he had – even as soldier after soldier fell on the field of battle, bodies left to be buried by the desert they died in. 

Soon, it became necessary for them to evacuate, Peta still fighting to escape his grasp. They ducked from the bombs, and he ran with her behind a boulder – actual sitting ducks while others did the real work. Only then did Tony release her. 

“Stay down!” He took out his phone, sending an urgent distress message to J.A.R.V.I.S.

Distantly, he could see her edge from behind the boulder, watching in abject horror as valiant brave men and women were ruthlessly mowed down and slaughtered. 

Then the missile landed beside him, bearing his name. He leapt to his feet, yelling frantically, inaudibly, at Peta to _run, get away before you–_

His cry of alarm was the last thing his mind registered as the blood seeped through his tailored three-piece suit. 

* * *

Pain: the first thing he could comprehend as his other senses refused to cooperate. Sharp, visceral pain – inundating every nerve, the sheer volume sending his system into overdrive. 

As soon as he regained some function over his limbs, he flailed, crying out. He tried to open his eyes, but the sight alone was an exercise in trauma, and he struggled to focus. 

“Look at me.”

Tony couldn't do anything. He couldn't do anything, he was _stuck_. He tried to get away, but he couldn't _move_. Why couldn't he fucking _move_? What the hell happened to him to prohibit him from fucking _moving_?

“Look at me.”

Like he was submerged, the voice's ring was muffled, only barely reaching the event horizon of his shattered eardrums. 

“Look at me!”

Helpless, Tony did so. Peta's face was nebulous, hazy, but so _there_ he could reach out and snatch her. It took him a good while to process that he had done so, his hand clenched so tight in hers it was a wonder he hadn't caused a compression injury. 

Her eyes were all he could focus on, and it went against every fibre of his being to even manage that. 

“You've been shot,” she said, his hand still tight in hers. “You're injured. Badly. But it's okay; you are going to be okay. We're fixing it.”

The agony was hyperventilating his lungs, and he could just make out the slime of tears that rolled down the side of his face. He could hardly breathe through the pain. It was an awful thing to admit, but right at this very second, he didn't give a damn whether he lived or died – all he wanted was for the pain to stop.

“The pain you're in is stimulating your vagus nerve,” she explained, and he latched on to every syllable of her narration like a man drowning in a dark sea, “and in a few seconds you'll lose consciousness.” Her face fluttered – as delicate as a butterfly's wing. When she next spoke, her throat was strangled, “Don't fight it. You will feel better, I promise you. You will be _fine_.”

He didn't get the chance to respond. Exactly as she predicted, his vision tunnelled until all he had left was her. He passed out.

* * *

Reawakening was quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid – Tony emitting a tiny gasp as his brain recalled what happened prior. He manually placed the pain on a temporary backburner. Now that he had re-joined the land of the conscious, he had far more pressing matters to contend with. 

He plucked the nasal cannula out of his nose; was understandably stressed when he was calmly informed that an electromagnet, connected to a car battery that was _attached to him,_ was all that was stopping him from an early death; was horrified when he realised he had become a casualty of his own machinery; was worried for– 

“Peta,” he rasped, rough. Where was she?

Allowing his eyes adjusted to the poor lighting, he glanced out the corner of his eye – rod cells working to process what tiny fraction of light they had to play with – and he breathed a harsh sigh relief when he spotted her, curled up with her back to the wall, blanket covering her form. 

“She stayed by your side while you were out of it,” their fellow inmate explained. “This is the first she's slept since you arrived.”

Regret curdled in his stomach, rising as bile to the foot of his oesophagus. He stifled the urge to gag on his negligence. It was a bona fide Stark Industries weapon that claimed Tony as a victim – and, he would wager, the soldiers who lost their lives. 

Tony felt like: his organs had been removed, one by one, and placed his Canopic jars. Emptiness condemned his entire being, and he had never felt so cold in all his years. 

The door grated as it opened. Tony was pulled into a standing position; Peta was swiftly startled awake. They had time to exchange a mutual glance before their fellow captive instructed them to assume a surrender position. 

Tony's every muscle strongly opposed, yet he was too weak to resist.

Within seconds, their tiny little cave was overrun by men with guns. Wait, rephrase: they were _terrorists_ brandishing _Tony's_ guns. One man in particular stood out amongst the rest, calling himself Abu Bakaar. 

“He says: welcome, Tony Stark. The most famous mass murderer in the history of America,” the man who saved Tony's life translated. “He is honoured.”

Tony was a grey rock. 

Bakaar grinned – a dagger poised to strike. Tony's flesh crawled; the electromagnet powering his heart felt like an event horizon. Get too close, and you would never be able to exit. Except Bakaar prowled away from Tony, coming to a stop in front of Peta, continuing in Arabic.

The translation came in, hesitant: “...and I have been reliably informed that we have the privilege of hosting New York's most dangerous vigilante.”

This time, the ice slicing its way through Tony's upper abdomen was unrelated to his recent surgery. 

“I have no doubt you are wondering why you cannot access your powers,” Bakaar's mirth was poison. “We have Tony Stark to thank for that.”

Oh. Oh, no. God, no.

“The bio-dampening shield you, Stark, engineered and manufactured is brilliant. You’ll be pleased to know it’s a success. Spider-Man has been neutralised.”

Yes, Tony's hands were responsible for that. Shortly after the events with Adrian Toomes – who was found guilty of stealing Stark Industries weapons and selling them to known criminals for the highest price – when ol’ Spidey started clogging his radar, Obie suggested that maybe having a weapon in defence of Spider-Man was in the company's best interest. Not just for the company, for all of New York. He wasn't willing to gamble the lives of New York with an unknown superhuman roaming the streets, entirely beholden to his power. No, they deserved security. Protection. Tony was a futurist; it was his job to prepare for any eventuality. 

_Not everyone can be Captain America_ – those had been Obie's exact words, and Tony had assembled Spider-Man's bane from the very finest metal. 

Using Howard's old notes on Captain America's physiology, Tony was able to calculate and isolate a frequency pertaining to Spider-Man's enhancements, analysing dozens of video footage of the vigilante in action. From his observations, Tony gathered that Spidey functioned on pheromones; simply block the signals to the brain, and Spider-Man would be powerless. That provided the basis for his invention – and his hypothesis was correct.

 _Fuck_.

Peta stiffened beside him, eyes trained ahead, computing the fact that Tony was the reason she was here. Again. 

None of them were given much time to fully comprehend the magnitude of what Tony had done. Bakaar was done talking.

They wanted him to build the Jericho.

In the end, it was the easiest choice in the world: _“I refuse.”_

Rough hands snatched him first – Peta and the other man quickly following suit. Bags were placed over their heads, unforgiving darkness all Tony could see, autonomy no longer a human right. They were led to an adjacent cave before ripping off their bags. 

“You will build the Jericho,” Bakaar demanded, not waiting for a reply before knocking Peta to her knees and shoving her face first in a vat of water. 

They tortured her for... he didn't know how long. Water torture was their preferred method, and they made him _watch_. Their grins were sickening, nauseating, and all Tony could do was fucking _watch_ as her body convulsed, paralysed by the instinctive drowning response, before they shoved her head back under water. 

Tony didn't want to bear witness, but he couldn't stop as the nightmare played out in front of him. Far as he could tell, nobody was about to hand him a remote control any time soon. He wasn't calling the shots anymore.

Soon, they grew tired of their sport, yanking them all back up, barely giving Peta a moment to recuperate, and shoving their heads in bags once more. Like lambs led to slaughter, they ventured outside, unceremoniously seizing the bags off their heads for a final time, leaving them to wilt under the sun's glare. 

There they stood – surrounded by dozens of boxes, crates, of his company's stock. Tony’s pride and joy.

“I think you got a lot of my weapons.”

Their terms remained unchanged: “You have everything you need to build the Jericho.”

The barrel of a gun was forced on Peta's head. 

Tony bartered for her life, panic cloying his vowels and consonants alike, dousing them in fear, and delivering them on a silver platter to their enslavers.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew as soon as he delivered their precious cargo, their brains would be decorating the interior of their cave.

They shook on it. 

The gun slipped away from Peta's temple.

“Thank you,” she said jovially. Her smile curved at the edges, poised like a dagger, the act of rebellion a staple of Spider-Man's persona.

Bakaar's cheerful disposition melted away, and he backhanded her clean across the face, stalking away before her body collapsed to the ground. The hit happened too fast for Tony's perception, adding to the increasing quantity of guilt already in his system, flinching as she fell. Her lip was cracked, bleeding. He extended a hand to her, relieved when she took it. 

“You shouldn't provoke him,” Tony muttered low, afraid for her. Powerlessness settled low in his gut; cold fury trembling his hands – one in hers, one anchored to the car battery. “Not when you...” he clamped his mouth shut. 

Peta chased after his sentence. “Not when I don't have my powers.”

Tony couldn't hold her stare. She let go of his hand.

The walk back to the cave was silent as a tomb.

* * *


	2. Mark 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Peta begin to bond while in the throes of captivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody. I just want to thank each and every one of you for reading this, and commenting, and giving me kudos. You have no idea how much your support helps, and I am so immeasurably grateful that you are enjoying my story. 
> 
> Here is the next part. I hope you guys enjoy! :)

Sleep escaped them all in equal measure.

The woman behind the Spider-Man mask was apoplectic, incandescent, outraged; all of the above. And rightfully so. She had been tortured in his name, stripped of all power, and now left to fester and rot in this godforsaken cave.

He couldn't look her in the eye.

“Spider-Man was the only thing I had,” she muttered as he apologised, holding a bowl of soup as a peace offering. “The one thing I had left.” Her expression was hard, words quiet and strong, and no less than what he deserved. “Your father helped create the Super Soldier Serum that gave Captain America his powers, and you created a machine to take away mine.”

All Tony could offer was, “I really am sorry.” He set the bowl down beside her.

Peta's harsh stare broke. “Yeah, I know.” She scrubbed a weary hand down her face. “I know.”

That night, as his hyper aroused brain finally succumbed to unconscious thought, his penitence manifested in the nightmare his tortured mind conjured up. He was presenting the Jericho, speaking soundless words that refused to be heard. AC/DC's _Back in Black_ was playing in the background like a funeral march. When the time came to release the weapon, demonstrate its murderous capabilities, Howard Stark fired it into the mountains. When the dust cleared, Captain America was standing there in all his comic book glory, condemning his actions. 

“You have always disappointed me,” his father said coldly, sadly, extending a hand to his beloved Steve Rogers. Behind them, Maria watched, tears streaming down her face. Tony called out to her, ran to her, but she turned her back on him in shame. 

In the blink of an eye, he was behind that boulder once more, firing a text for help, and his weapon landed. No matter how hard he tried, even when he knew it was coming, he could not escape his fate. The shrapnel punctured his heart, Peta standing over him, taking one final picture as he lay **D Y I N G** –

Tony awoke with a shout, body drenched in icy sweat, shivering, running hot then cold. Twin faces of nuanced shades of concern stared back at him. Looked like sleep was no longer a friend. He turned away, sat up, put on as many layers as he could in the frigid atmosphere.

God, he craved a drink. 

He had no idea how long he sat there – thinking. Was this what depression felt like? If it was, he didn't care. Just leave him to rot. Was there anything left of him to salvage? 

Answer: nothing at all. 

If he had a dollar for every human drawing breath on this planet, it still wouldn't total the grand sum of his net worth. Perhaps, then, it was no wonder why he considered life cheap. 

Being a multi-billionaire had its price.

(How was he any different than the Ten Rings?)

Agonising over his litany of failure, Tony took solace in the self-made trough of blame and dereliction. The fact that someone had obviously gone to great lengths to uncover Peta's Spidey secret implied premeditation. That, coupled with the knowledge that very few people at S.I. knew of the existence of his anti-Spider-Man device suggested an inside accomplice. 

Or, in other words: his company had a rat problem.

In short: _his company_ had an infestation of rats, while _he_ – the CEO of said company – bathed in the spoils of ignorance.

 _Karma_. This cave was his comeuppance.

The all-encompassing guilt abated just enough for him to register the sound of soft footsteps drawing close to where he sat, staring at the dying embers of what was once a great fire – in a cave surrounded by his legacy.

Peta sat beside him, leg just brushing his. He suppressed the flinch her presence wrought, but all she did was hand him a bowl of soup – an edible olive branch; paralleling his own attempt. 

He wanted to move, to respond to her efforts, to let her know how much he appreciated the sentiment except his body refused to comply, choosing to calcify, choosing to harden so none dare penetrate. He couldn't– _feel_ any more. Guilt had a quota, and he'd surpassed it eighty-nine hours ago.

After a pregnant pause, she stopped trying, holding the bowl above her lap. She didn't shy away. 

“I wanted to be famous,” Peta said quietly, forgoing an introductory preface. He was expecting another reprimand, another acrimonious attack – he deserved a hell of a lot more – so the non sequitur came out of left field. 

When Tony didn't respond in any outward capacity, she continued, “I was raised by my aunt and uncle. Before I got my powers, I was a nobody. I was known as the poor kid with the dead parents and money troubles.” She looked down at her hands, fingers splayed. “When I got my powers, I felt like my luck had turned. Like, for the first time in my life, I could be something other than a victim.”

She took a breath. “So, I became a television star. Nothing too fancy.” Humorously, she added, “It's probably inconsequential to you, but to me – God, it was everything. Spider-Man became a local celebrity, every household in Queens knew his name.”

Tony knew the feeling. Truth be told, he didn't miss the notoriety as much as he thought it would. Solitude had its moments. 

"But then one day – after I'd finished wrapping up my first ever interview with...God, do you know, I can't even remember – I was leaving the studio, and I saw this robber just running down the halls, full backpack, being chased by a couple of guards.” Her breathing hitched, and Tony's every molecule was listening, attentive, hungry for any dreg of vindication she could give him. “I let him go.”

Tony's hand twitched. 

“It wasn't because I didn't care, I just.” She rubbed at her eye, introspective. “Well, I didn't care. Two weeks later, that same guy–” she inhaled sharply – “shot and killed my uncle in a botched burglary. A burglary he was only able to carry out because I failed to stop him that day.”

Empathy flooded his system, superseding his own self-loathing. 

“With great power comes great responsibility,” she recited, low. He understood why she said it, now – not as a condemnation. Rather, an invitation. He could feel her eyes hit the side of his face. “It's not always something that can be taught. Sometimes, you have to feel it to understand.”

Inexplicably, this was the part Tony wanted to tear up. Her words did not erase the horrors he had inflicted on the soldiers, on innocent civilians, on _her_. What they did was lift the crushing pressure off his chest. His breath came a little easier. 

He shifted to face her, finding no censure on her face – only compassion.

“I'm sorry,” he offered again, as coherent as he could muster around the lump in his throat. For as long as the four chambers of his heart pumped blood, he would never stop telling her that. “For everything.”

‘Well,” she shrugged. With rueful undertones, she added lightly, “I kinda did crash your multi-million-dollar jet on Coney Island, so. I get it.”

Tony's quiet laugh was an odd mix of shock, hysteria and carbon dioxide. It wasn't funny – none of this was funny. But in the choice between laughing or crying, you can bet your ass Tony would be the first one crying from laughter.

The mirth dried on his eyelids. “Thank you,” he spoke through a throat thick with emotion. 

Peta's expression was like that moment after the rain stops and sun breaks through the array of dark, grey clouds just enough to offer a fragment of light. Tony thought: he could look at that sight...forever. 

“You're welcome, Mr. Stark.” She made to move away. He placed a hand on her arm. 

“Tony,” he murmured. “Please. It's Tony.” 

Tenderness pillowed her words, eyes exquisitely heartfelt in a way money could never buy, as she repeated, “Tony.”

* * *

Between the treasured peace offering entrusted to him by Peta and the inspiring pep talk by Yinsen, he formulated a plan – he would fashion a shield from his weapons; modify _attack_ into _defence_.

Tony swore: never again would his hands breed destruction. 

* * *

  
They were permitted to bathe once a week – although even calling it a ‘bath’ was impinging on the fringe of hyperbole. A grey metal tub filled halfway with lukewarm water was all they had to contend with, and they each took turns washing. However, with Tony depending on an electrical current to survive, he didn't chance actually getting in the tub. Instead, he wet an old shirt and used that to wash himself.

One toothbrush was shared between them – the epitome of hygiene.

 _Oh, we are not in Kansas anymore,_ thought Tony sarcastically. 

Food was delivered once a day, and they were forced to feast on the scraps the Ten Rings so graciously gifted them. 

Occasionally, they would hurl clothes and recreational games into their low-rent prison. _To fulfil their duties as a host,_ Yinsen paraphrased. No one inquired as to how they came about these items. No one had the stomach.

Sensitively, Yinsen broached the topic of menstruation with Peta – a little awkward, but had to be done. Neither of them wanted her to suffer in silence. 

Their concern was alleviated somewhat when she lifted up her sleeve and showed Yinsen the implant imbedded in her arm.

“It’s just easier. With Spider-Man,” she explained needlessly. “But thank you.”

They began work on their escape plan immediately after Tony swapped the car battery for a miniaturised arc reactor, the flickering lights reminiscent of the twinkling constellations decorating the Malibu skyline. 

The temperature fluctuated during their imprisonment. Tony ended up hogging the fire, melting and reforging the concrete evidence of his failings. Yinsen was tasked with doing the intricate wiring, those steady surgeon's hands working in harmony to achieve electrical output, Peta proving to be an outstanding assistant. 

There were no pretences, no mock-ups, no façades to be had between them. They were all of them stripped bare until it was just them. Just raw, unforgiving honesty and a fight to survive.

And, most shockingly of all: affection. Fine, that one might just be on Tony's end considering that he was the kind of the bad guy here. Even so, he was starting to form real, tentative bonds with other human beings for the first time since freshman year MIT. He supposed: shared imprisonment was instrumental in facilitating to the formation of emotional bonds. Advantageous, even – to substitute a synonym. 

On a night where sleep eluded him, Yinsen screamed, babbling in another language what seemed to be a name. Several names, in fact. 

Peta shook him awake. Incoherent Pashto mutated into pidgin English and then just English as his sleep receded and his surroundings solidified. 

Words escaped them in times of great peril. There was no comfort to be had. All they could offer the other beyond a physical presence was misery. 

* * *

A cold snap permeated through the air. 

Observing, Tony noticed how Peta struggled in the frigid temperature, doing her best to temper her homeostatic response lest she became a burden.

When the shivering became more pronounced, Tony stripped off his worn jacket, and casually draped it over her shoulders, abolishing any semblance of acute embarrassment at the out-of-character gesture. 

(See? This is why he drank.)

“You're cold,” he rationalised gruffly. Acts of kindness did not come easy to him, and it was proving a tougher task than he originally thought. Nevertheless, he pushed through. She deserved as much – and he wanted to do this for her.

Peta's perplexity cleared somewhat, dwindling just enough for her to thank him in her earnest way. He waved off her gratitude with a perfunctory nod before retreating to the relative safety of his makeshift lab table. 

He pointedly ignored the knowing glint in Yinsen's eye. There was only so much self-reflection he was capable of processing and he was already way over limit.

* * *

  
Like an electron, Tony's negative was drawn to her positive. There was security in her presence – comfort, a mutual understanding, shared guilt, you name it. He _liked_ being around her, more than he had ever enjoyed being around another human being in all his life. 

Therefore, apropos of that, it was totally plausible that, after falling asleep in close proximity with one another, Tony's sleep-heavy body had subconsciously decided to spoon her, chest-to-back, waking up to her endothermic heat warming his arc reactor. It was... nice. Honestly, it was more than nice.

Rather, it _would have been_ nice had he not awoken with the horrifying realisation that the full length of his morning wood was pressing quite obviously against her back, apparently very pleased to see her. 

Any furtive hope he had of her not being awake to notice his pitched tent was immediately squashed like a bug when she greeted him with a light, “Morning.”

“Morning,” he replied in as even a tone as he could muster considering the circumstances. He tilted away from her, body protesting her absence. God, he had never been more ashamed. Here they were: injured by his weapons, held captive by his weapons, building his weapon – and Tony woke up with a hard-on that rivalled one of his weapons.

Mortified, he got up, moving to a more discreet part of the cave to get dressed and wait for his fucking erection to drain of blood. 

The rest of the day was spent on edge. More so than usual, even with the threat of gruesome death hanging over them. The only talk consisted of Yinsen and Peta would conferring with each other as they worked on the intricacies of their escape plan. Eventually, Yinsen passed the mechanism over to Peta, ducking out to sleep early – he worked double time the previous day – until it was just the two of them. 

The quiet was suffocating, asphyxiating him where he stood. Rallying every last shred of audacity that endured their capture and captivity, Tony walked over to her table, yet another apology on the tip of his tongue. 

He got as far as, “Listen, Peta,” before wavering, mouth unable to process the formation of words. “What happened this morning, I.” He scratched at the nape of his neck. “It was an instinctive response. Normally, when I'm pressed up against another person, _other things_ end up happening, and that was definitely not the case this morning.” Then, because that sounded really bad, “I just mean– This morning was a biological reaction to your presence. It had absolutely nothing to do with you.” Um. That was probably a little on the harsh side. 

Crap. He was really screwing it up here. Remember when he used to possess a silver tongue? Yeah, well, apparently subjugation was the cure to that ailment. 

He cleared his throat. Regardless of the awkwardness of this declaration, he wanted her to have all the facts: “I do find you attractive, for the record, but that has no bearing on certain physiological...things.”

Could he fuck it up any more ways? He was dying to know. 

For his fumbling efforts, he was rewarded with just a hint of innocent mischief and a teasing, “I know. But it's nice to hear that you find me attractive, even while we're both in captivity. Which, between you and me, isn't exactly my best look.”

Tony couldn't help but smile along with her, momentarily relieved of the reality of their situation. 

_You look beautiful._ The truth in that observation bowled him over. He couldn't say it. Couldn't. It would be cruel to say it – he was a playboy, she was a superhero, and they were all but chained up in a cave. 

That didn't stop the oxytocin from altering his brain chemistry, and it didn't stop him from noticing her. 

“Good,” he said, stubborn smile painting his face. 

Fond, Peta replied, “Good.”

* * *

  
Later, once they retired for the night, Peta curled up against his body, head gingerly leaning on his chest above the arc reactor. Instinctively, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, holding her to him, keeping her safe, whispering _goodnight_.

* * *

Tony listened in as Yinsen and Peta discussed delicacies they would indulge in once they were freed from the confinements of these mountains: 

“Mr. Delmar's. Number five. Extra pickles, and smushed down real flat. Best sandwich in Queens,” Peta announced triumphantly, hands dissembling one of Tony's WMDs and stripping it of iron in order for him to melt down later, putting her dumpster diving qualification to good use. “How ‘bout you?”

Yinsen smiled good-naturedly. “Kabuli pulao. It's a rice dish mixed with raisins, carrots and beef or lamb.”

Peta smiled at the wistful nostalgia painted on Yinsen's face. “Sounds delicious.” She turned to Tony. “And you?”

He didn't even hesitate. “Can't go wrong with a good old-fashioned American cheeseburger. In fact, make that two.”

Peta pondered his choice. “McDonalds or Burger King?”

Scandalised, he responded, “Burger King.” 

Peta gaped in mock affront. “Outrageous.”

Yinsen chuckled at their banter. Their laughter soon petered off, replaced with a passionate desire to escape.

* * *

  
During times of great emotional distress and disparity, nocturnal introspection was a rite of passage. Notably: internal monologues of self-damnation. 

Case in point: currently, Tony was busy trying to set a world record for the amount of guilt felt by one person. Spoiler alert: it was _a lot_. It wasn't just about his arms dealing – okay, a vast majority of it was – but rather an attack on the whole self. His character. The callousness in his psyche was matched only by the calluses on his fingers; a wretched malignancy, turning the abstract into concrete. Shame dripped down his spine like Chinese water torture, one vertebrae at a time. 

Put simply: he... wasn't a good person. 

And that was a bitter pill to swallow.

He voiced as much one night, laying on the uncomfortable floor, Peta atop his heart – intrusive thoughts defiling the inside of his skull. He couldn't even down look at the scarlet letter on his chest, mocking him. 

“You'd give someone the shirt off your back if they needed it,” Tony murmured, the revelation prising open his skull. Peta was Spider-Man and Tony was the Merchant of Death. If there was a morality chart, Peta would be leagues ahead of him. Leagues ahead of _everyone_. She embodied everything good about this world, and he was the personification of all the abominable actions of the human race. There was no comparison. 

Peta deflected. “Anyone would do the same,” she mitigated, and the dark chuckle that wracked his wounded chest protested her assertion. 

“I wouldn't,” he whispered – this one, glaring personality defect signifying his entire failure. He shifted under her weight. “I wouldn't do that. I'd give him some money if I was feeling kind, but I would never give mine up.” What an awful thing reality could be: “I'm not a good person.”

Fact of the matter was: his actions were reprehensible, unconscionable. Criminal. The only difference between Tony and the fine gentlemen holding them hostage was that these guys weren't getting paid. 

His stomach heaved. 

Peta's reply was little more than a whisper; a quiet, confident assertion that stole his attention like a petty thief.

“When the bombs went off, you put your arms around me. Your first thought was to protect me, even if that meant that meant you would be defenceless. You haggled for my life when we first got here. I'd be dead if it weren't for you.”

Admittedly, she would be very much safe and warm and alive in Queens were it not for him.

Coward by trade, Tony didn't want to linger on that train of thought.

She paused, giving him time to mull over her words – pick them apart, tinker with them until they resemble none of their original semantic intent. 

“You're an ass, Tony. In fact, I'd go so far as to say you're the biggest ass I've ever met,” she said bluntly, entertaining no illusion as to his true nature. What she said next, however, patched the tattered remains of his heart – “but don't you ever think you're not a good person.”

Tony's breath hitched, stuttered. It took every last bit of strength to not cry like a baby at her absolution. 

Unable to appropriately vocalise the significance of what she had just bestowed upon him, he smothered his mouth atop her crown.

* * *

Ultimately, as space and time distorted in the cave, it was Tony who cautiously inquired as to why Peta – an actual, accredited superhero – worked as a photographer for an editor that slandered her alter ego every chance he got.

Peta was silent for the longest time. 

“I got a full ride to MIT – to double major in Biology and Chemistry,” she finally said, tone barely audible over their work. “Ever since I was a little kid, all I wanted was to attend MIT.” Her smile waned. “But when the time came, I couldn't leave New York; I couldn't. So, I turned it down, and I studied biophysics at Empire State instead.”

Tony neglected to mention the whole _college dropout_ part of her résumé. He had a funny feeling there was about to be an explanation. 

“And it was good. For a short while. And then the Kingpin started concocting all his little master plans in my city, and I stopped going to lectures. They were okay with it to begin with,” Peta grimaced, “but when I stopped attending altogether, they grew concerned.”

She ripped off the head off his weapon with a little more force than strictly necessary. “They gave me an ultimatum: either I make up the work I missed or they'd kick me out.” He got the impression she was aiming for indifference, but the act was considerably strained. “So, I quit.” She looked down, focused on her work, and quietly stressed the, “I had to.”

Yinsen articulated the question Tony didn't have the right to ask: “Why?”

“It's 'cause when you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and _then_ the bad things happen–” Her sigh dispersed in the air. “They happen because of you.” She looked exhausted, and in that moment, all Tony wanted to do was bundle her up in his mansion and let her sleep for as long as she wanted. 

“My aunt still thinks I'm there. At ESU. I never– I didn't know how to tell her that the life I imagined for myself, the life she thought I imagined for myself, had imploded. I send her as much of my pay check as I can every month ‘cause she needs it more than I do, and because it helps ease my conscience a little bit.”

Peta looked close to tears. “I just hope she's okay,” she muttered, broken, but trying to piece herself together.

“She will be,” Yinsen said, consoling. He placed a hand on her back. 

But all three of them knew: he couldn't promise that.

* * *

  
Sometime after, as they took an ephemeral respite to sleep and recharge, he couldn't tear his eyes away from her, the story she revealed earlier playing on his mind – her courage, her valour, her _sorrow_. All he wanted was to carry it for her. 

“What?” she asked, amused, catching his eyes before they flickered away again.

“Nothing, just,” Tony floundered for the right words. “You're not at all who I pictured Spider-Man to be.”

He knew it was the wrong thing to say when her expression shuttered. “Yeah, I get that.”

“You're better,” he said quickly, brain-to-mouth filter non-existent. “You're better than I imagined.” Hell, she was better than Captain fucking America, who his dad shoved down his throat every day for his entire childhood until Tony became disillusioned with the notion of superheroes. 

Peta barked a laugh. “I'm not,” she refuted, woefully self-recriminating. “I'm a mess. All I have is Spider-Man. I never noticed before, but now, I–” She frowned, ruminating aloud. “I really don't... have anything except Spider-Man,” she said slowly, enunciating every vowel, every syllable. Then, she broke out into a sardonic half-smirk. “God, I think that might be the most pathetic thing anyone's ever said.”

“It's not,” said Tony, a gentleness there that was seldom exploited. “It's not pathetic.”

Peta scoffed, doubting his opinion. “I'm reclusive, I have trust issues, and I have problems letting people in.”

With one finger, Tony tilted her chin to look him in the eye. “Story of my life,” he whispered, sharing her pain. “Alright, maybe not the reclusive bit,” he amended in the face of her scepticism. 

Peta's breathless laugh was genuine, albeit taut. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” he murmured, tender. “How ‘bout we make a pact, hm? When we get outta here, you and I will promise to let each other in – damn the consequences, damn the repercussions. We'll trust each other. Unconditionally.”

Peta's mouth formed an intricate smile. “Yeah?” she mouthed, unwilling to disrupt the tentative promise of partnership. 

Tony smiled too, firmer than hers though no less fragile. “Yeah.” Before he could talk himself out of it, he grappled for her hand, intertwining their fingers. 

The crackle of the fire disrupted the silence her quietude wrought. 

Then, she bit her lip, nibbling slightly, suddenly shy. The glimpse was enough to drive him wild, even in here. “I've never... kissed anyone before,” she confessed. 

Hm. Tony had zero clues on what he was supposed to make of that. 

Luckily, Peta expanded on that train of thought, “I just mean. I.” Her face flushed; the very ripest of apples. “I never learnt how to be with another person. I always thought I was too– _different_. And I'd made my peace with that, I had.” She exhaled, slow. “But now that my life is up in the balance, I think I regret that choice.”

Reading between the lines, he was still reluctant to presume the subtext behind her words. Yeah, he wasn't an idiot; he knew what it sounded like, but...he didn't focus too much attention on what he _assumed_ she was getting at. Presumptuousness was a quality he strove to discard.

If recent events had taught him anything, it was that he destroyed everything he touched. All his good intentions and not so good intentions – _poof!_ Gone. Little more than a remote memory.

He couldn't afford to fuck things up with Peta. Not when she was the one shred of goodness he could cling to in this nightmare. 

Interrupting his cognitive interlude, the woman in question put him out of his misery. “I was wondering – and you can say no, always, I won't be offended – if I could kiss you.”

Under his breath, heart in his mouth, he breathed, “Yes,” and abdicated his throne to her.

It was the most PG kiss he'd ever been involved with – giving or receiving. It was the most chaste, the most innocent, the purest. 

None of that explained why his heart was pounding against the cage of his ribs at the delicate touch of her lips against his. 

He felt her smile against his mouth, spurring him on in her wake. “Thank you,” she hummed. 

“Anytime,” he whispered against the taste of her, and he meant it. Sincerely.

* * *

  
Like clockwork, their bodies adapted to the established routine. 

Possessively, Tony's clutched at her middle, hand splayed on her lower abdomen, entwining their legs. His nose was buried in the soft flesh where neck met shoulder, and under the grim and dirt and grease that caked her skin was a smell so gloriously _Peta_. He was addicted.

With blood-red eyes, he fired a warning glare to the little camera situated adjacent to them, biding his time like a crocodile stalking its prey in murky water, a human shield over the smile of her neck – _threat: critical._

* * *

The Ten Rings didn't take kindly to his defiance, their patience wearing thin as they waited for goods that would never be delivered. Never one to shy away from confrontation, they made their displeasure known throughout the mountainous range. 

Interrupting their conversation mid-flow, and narrowly missing the invention they were really working on, an entourage of guns led by Raza encircled them where they stood, demanding to know the whereabouts of the promised Jericho missile. 

His threats were serious. With a careless gesture, he had Yinsen pushed to his knees, another heating up a piece of metal. Tony's brain mentally recorded his face. Oh, he was going to pay for that. 

Then, Raza himself aimed his weapon at Peta's forehead – a malicious facsimile of Bakaar's earlier ultimatum.

Palpitations pierced Tony's chest, knocking against the arc reactor, the shrapnel just itching to find its way into his heart.

His eyes were locked with Peta – beautifully fearless Peta. 

“Which will it be, Stark?” Raza goaded, vicious sadism bleeding from his eyes. It made Tony sick. “Torture for your friend, or a painless death for your lover?”

It was a horrible thing to admit – and he would never; if he had his way, he would take this secret to the hopefully-not-too-soon grave – but Tony knew what his decision would be. Judging by Yinsen's facial expressions, he understood it too. Understood and _accepted_ it. But still, Tony had one last bargaining chip left and he was damn well going to deal it.

“I need 'em both,” he muttered in a throat tense and hoarse. “Good assistants.”

He had them both released. Raza extracted a due date from Tony – twenty-four hours.

Tony grasped Peta in his arms, holding her to him – just until his breath came easier. Afterward, he made sure to check Yinsen was okay before heading back to work. 

He had a helmet to construct.

* * *

  
Their one shot at breaking free of this hellhole was wrought with foreboding. Stress coagulated his blood, clotting before it had a chance to bleed. His dread was worsened when Yinsen boldly ran into the line of fire in a bid to give Tony additional, precious few seconds. 

“Yinsen!”

Tony's neck snapped back to Peta. “Don't you dare leave,” he said, wild and crazed. He could see the binary opposition warring for dominance on her face – _stay vs go_. He didn't give her a choice: “Stay.”

The struggle on her face was a study in melancholy; nonetheless, she stayed by his side, screwing up the plates on his body, keeping him safe so he can keep her safe. 

Echoing in the dim cave walls, the sound of manic yelling was a ticking clock counting down the seconds. 

Peta kissed him: hurried and quick; little more than a peck. The taste of fear stained his bottom lip. “For good luck.”

Tony grabbed at her wrist before she could move, and replaced her anxiety with his mouth. “When we get outta here, I'm gonna make out with you,” he said, all grim and fierce and full of promise. 

Her grin turned wicked. “It's a date.” She turned to retrieve his helmet, and gently connected it to his armour. “Stay alive, okay?”

“You, too.” Even to his ear, his voice sounded terrifying, menacing, _vengeful_. Discard the fallibly weak man who indulged in cheap pleasure at the expense of human life, and you get a wrathful deity. 

Peta was a shadow at his back, picking up a gun of his own making from the fallen terrorists. He didn't know if she would use it – maybe she didn't know if she would. Either way, it served as protection. 

Fighting his way out of the cave, Tony was relentless, determined not to leave even a trace of his firepower behind. _Never again._

They found Yinsen: dying. Peta ran to his side, ducking just in time to avoid a fireball. Tony retaliated with full force. 

“Get up,” he urged. “We're gettin’ outta here. Come on.”

“Your family will be waiting for you,” Peta added, wet with unshed tears.

What he said next broke Tony’s heart.

“My family’s dead. I will join them now.”

“Thank you for saving us,” was the only thing he had to offer, Peta vocalising her own gratitude. 

“Don't waste it.” Yinsen coughed. “Don't waste your lives.” His pupils were fixed and dilated. 

Peta closed his eyes.

Furious rage bubbled in Tony's arteries, pumping his blood with such vigour it damn near frightened him. 

“Come on,” he all but growled.

* * *

Cut to: they made it out, Tony obliterated the anti-Spider-Man contraption with disproportionate fury. There was a minor crash-landing, but they made it out relatively unscathed. 

(Fine, Tony dislocated his shoulder. Whatever. Injuries were lame.)

Following their daring escape, away from proximity of the machine Tony created to incapacitate Spider-Man, Peta collapsed to the ground, knees sliding on the hot sand. 

“Peta,” he said hurriedly, concerned. He disentangled himself from the ruins of the suit with great haste. “Are you okay?”

When she looked up at him, her features were etched with unadulterated joy. 

“Yes,” she said, springing to her feet with a mildly-alarming velocity. “I'm perfect.”

Ecstatic, Tony basked in her happiness, and honoured his promise: he made out with Peta like he'd never kissed another soul. 

Sucking on her bottom lip, he urged her to open her mouth to him, wanting to kiss her the way he first imagined doing three months ago – _let me in let me in let me in._ At that first tentative gasp, Tony gently seized his opportunity to slip his tongue down her throat, greedily swallowing her moan like a man starving. Her technique was a little below adequate, but the sheer ardour in which she mimicked his movements overcompensated for it. 

Freedom had never tasted so divine as they swapped saliva. 

Tony drew back. 

“We should probably get help,” he said, breathlessly delirious. 

His mirror image, Peta grinned, slipping her hand in the fingers of his good one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :) I really hope you guys enjoyed it.


	3. Driving with the Top Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Peta adjust to their newfound freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Thank you so much for all the support you have given me and this story. It honestly means a great deal to me, and you guys are entirely the reason why I keep writing. 
> 
> I cannot believe we are on the penultimate chapter already. I really hope you guys enjoy it! :)

Arriving back to the States was, he had to say, a lot more fun than the journey out. 

Medical personnel on the flight relocated Tony's shoulder – it was a very manly scream, to be clear – and deemed it in need of an arguably unfashionable blue-cast sling. Peta had no such injuries, neither of them revealed why. She attached herself to his side on the inbound journey, her presence strong and stable, and Tony took more solace than was probably necessary in her company. 

He wasn't complaining. 

Peta stayed by his side when they finally touched down, rejecting his offer to have his driver drop her off in New York. Her hand only tightened in his good one, and she pecked the short bristles on his cheek with adoring force, lips pink from the burn. 

“I'm not leaving,” she said once, stance firm and unyielding, and Tony's whole body relaxed in a way he never knew it could. 

He introduced Peta to Happy and Pepper, Rhodey having already been acquainted with her, and he instructed them to first acquire some much-needed cheeseburgers for both himself and Peta, and then to call a press conference. 

As though sensing Tony's turmoil at effectively castrating the company his father constructed from the dirt, Peta squeezed his hand, offering him a smile he tried to return. 

Henceforth, Stark Industries would no longer mass produce killing machines to fund Tony's piss-poor extra-curricular activities. He delivered his impromptu speech from the ground, eyes flickering to hers where she sat to the side, reinforcing his new attitude – Tony Stark Mk II, a much-needed upgrade.

It was crazy how comforting looking at her was; it was crazy how much he had come to rely on her support; it was crazy how much he _desired_ her, needed her, couldn't fucking live without her. He could blame it on Afghanistan, but it wasn't the fact that they'd just spent the past three months with nothing but each other and Yinsen to keep their spirits up. Okay, maybe it played a part, but it wasn't the deciding factor. 

It was just– it was _her,_ and it was _him_. It was _them_. 

Obie quickly took the stand, hurriedly placating the ravenous reports itching to condemn Tony as a man desert-deranged. His efforts were in vain, and Tony could not give less of a fuck if his life depended on it. 

“What did you think?” he asked Peta once they were ushered to a more secluded spot, away from prying eyes. 

“That was ballsy,” she said, smiling so bright she outshone the sun. (When did he turn into such a sap?) “And I loved it.”

Tony grinned himself. “Good.” Fuck, he really was under her spell, wasn't he?

* * *

  
He gave Peta a semi-tour around S.I. – only a semi-tour because he got the feeling he was not in good favour with the staff after his risky move – lingering on the arc reactor that powered his factory, kin to the one inside him.

The glow of the reactor mirrored in the brown of her eyes as she stood before it in all its glory. 

Tony gritted his teeth at Obie's interruption, but he nevertheless introduced him to Peta, revealing the arc reactor in his chest to Obie's keen, prying eyes. 

Discomfort was a lump in the pit of his stomach, and he had a feeling he had done something wrong. It didn't escape his notice that Peta's muscles were stiffened at the interaction, and against rational thought, he spat out an excuse to Obie and made a hasty retreat, unceremoniously tugging Peta along with him hand in hand.

Some budding young reporter was circling the building, clearly having stalked their last location, and Tony regrettably recalled her as the woman he last slept with before Afghanistan – _Vanity Fair,_ or something. She hadn't spotted them, though. Small mercies. 

Peta tracked the source of his abashed state, and she looked at him for clarification. Something on his face must have given him anyway for she asked, playful, “Wait – you and Everhart?” Her grin turned comical with unconcealed mirth.

“You know her?” Tony deflected expertly.

“Kinda. She did a short stint at the _Bugle_ a year back,” she explained. “She wrote a truly exceptional piece denouncing Spidey's evil machinations that brought Jonah to tears.”

“And she's a friend?” God, he hoped not. 

Peta snorted. “No. She is definitely not my friend.”

Tony glanced at her, intrigued by the quick rebuttal. “Sounds like there's a story there.”

“No, there's no story. We're just not that friendly. I'm pretty sure she doesn't even remember who I am. She's a little...” she floundered, searching for a civil adjective.

Tony had no such compunction. “Cutthroat?” he guessed, hazy memories of the night before Afghanistan swimming in his mind – _you ever lose an hour's sleep your whole life?_

Peta laughed. “Yes. Definitely cutthroat. But you have to hand it to her. She must be doing something right.” Then, her eyes widened, and she looked at him with no small amount of panic. “Don't tell me she was the last person you slept with before Afghanistan.”

Tony's silence was answer enough. 

“Oh, my God,” Peta said, laughing, not a hint of jealousy in her tone – and Tony was categorically not a little disappointed at that. “She _was_.”

“To be fair, that was kind of my thing back then.” Not anymore, though. He couldn't think of anything so unappetising as casual sex, and especially not when he could feel the warm shape of her hand in his. 

Peta hummed. “That's kind of her thing, too. She did try and proposition Spider-Man a couple times. It was very awkward.” As though afraid her words could be misconstrued, she backtracked. “Not that there's anything wrong with casual sex,” she clarified. “People should feel free to do whatever they want.”

 _Make that: whoever they want_ , Tony thought, crass. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as her expression turned reflective. “She did once say something to me that I've honestly never forgotten.” With her free hand, she scratched at the nape of her neck. “It was probably the only time we had ever interacted before, well, _this_.”

His interest piqued, Tony asked for enlightenment. 

Peta granted it. “She said: respect is something that is derived from the self.”

Wow. That was deep. Tony said something to that effect, mulling over the paraphrased words. 

“Yeah,” Peta agreed. “She has her moments.” Mischievously, she added, “When she isn't too busy sharpening her knives to stab you in the back with, that is.”

Tony chuckled. 

He flagged Happy down, and instructed the man to take them back to his Malibu home. It was only after the order left his lips that he realised he hadn't actually asked whether Peta wanted to go back with him – for all he knew, she would want to go home herself. 

Belatedly, he asked anyway, and she surprised him with a pleasant: 

“Yeah,” she said. “I've always wanted to see an actual mansion.”

* * *

  
Peta was in awe of his mansion, and Tony lapped it up. She marvelled at J.A.R.V.I.S., and he couldn't help but preen under her admiration. He would do anything for her favour.

The _way_ she _looked_ at him. Fuck, she looked at him like he was more than a sharply-dressed, bipedal ATM with a penchant for blowing shit up. It was enough to send him into cardiac arrest. Peta wore sincerity on her back, words imbued with stark truth. There was no duplicity on her, and she was that much more beautiful to him because of it.

It was alarming, how receptive Tony was to even a thimble of her attention. Like Pavlov's dog, he had grown accustomed to her presence, her time, her affection – he craved _her_. 

Tony had J.A.R.V.I.S. phone her aunt, and her friends, and he gave her privacy as she mitigated the horrors they both endured, ordering food and drink for them to toast and celebrate their freedom. 

“Non-alcoholic sparkling wine?” Peta teased once she ended the call, coming round to stand beside him. 

“Technically, you're not legal,” Tony pointed out. Before she could refute his point, he continued, fighting to force the words out of an uncooperative throat, “And, you know, three months sober.” Intently, he focused on opening the alcohol-free bottle of champagne. “Last time that was true, I was fourteen.” _Pop!_ “Maybe I don't want the streak to end just yet,” he finished, disgustingly vulnerable.

With a kiss on his cheek, Peta accepted his stance with wordless grace. 

The truth slipped out before he could stop them, “I couldn't have survived without you.”

Peta rolled her eyes, big grin prominent in them. “Yeah, you could.”

“Fine, I probably could've,” he relented, smiling himself at her laughter. “But I'm glad I didn't have to.”

“Me, too,” she whispered, leaning forward to lightly kiss him. 

Then, it was her time to hesitate:

“I know that we're going back to our lives tomorrow. I mean – properly. I'm going back to New York, and you're gonna stay here. We'll be on opposite sides of the country.” The stars gleamed in the brown of her eyes, better than any painting in his collection. Tony was transfixed. Peta took a shuddering breath, breaking the spell. “Okay,” she said after taking a beat to think about her speech. “I think that Afghanistan forced us to kind of grow together. Y'know, um, reveal our lives to each other. And now that we're back, I...” she faltered.

Wow. Being on this side of the rejection spiel was a far different experience than he thought. He mentally apologised to all those he had recited a variant this to in the heyday of his playboy days. “Kid, you don't need to explain. I get it.”

“No.” Frustration leaked through her tone, though he got the impression it was aimed inward. “No, you don't because I'm not making any sense.” Her breath shuddered on the exhalation before she rephrased: “Our circumstances bonded us, but I don't want it to end now that we've escaped.” 

The implication in her inarticulate statement took a while for Tony's brain to decode. Once it did, however, “Yes. Yes, I would like that.” His grin was unstoppable – fierce and unyielding and completely hers. “I would like that very much.”

Peta's face slackened in relief, excitement bubbling under the surface. Rose dusted her cheeks, and she ducked her head away from his prying gaze. “Good. That's– good. I'm glad.”

When she lifted her eyes back up, he claimed her mouth as his own. 

* * *

  
With their mutually-agreed upon decision rife in the atmosphere, Tony offered to let Peta stay rent-free for an indefinite period in the old Stark mansion – the home that housed his childhood. 

(Well, along with the numerous exploits and frivolities that Howard concerned himself with back in the good old days, but Tony didn't feel the need to mention that.)

To say Peta was shell-shocked was an understatement. 

“I know you've built your character in Queens, but if you can stomach relocating to Manhattan, you could always keep my family mansion warm,” he teased in good humour. God, he was weirdly nervous. Could Tony Stark even get nervous? Apparently, yes. “And J.A.R.V.I.S. is integrated into the mainframe, so that way we can both keep an eye on each other.” He was leaning really heavily into the salesman role, now. Funny – he hadn't realised how much stock he subconsciously placed in her answer.

Peta still had not made any outward movement, so Tony took it as impetus to keep talking. 

“I know you have working class roots,” he was quick to add. “And I don't want you to reject my offer because of them.” He floundered for an appropriate metaphor to convey what he so desperately wanted, the click of his fingers signalling when he found it. “Think of it as: I want you to tend to mine. Water my roots in my stead.”

Peta's reply was tinged with good-natured humour. “So, I'm to be your live-in gardener?”

Tony pondered her assessment for half a second. “Yes,” he declared. “But I'll defer to you. However you want to deal with them, that's fine by me. I want you to put down your own compost, your own soil.” Okay, maybe this analogy had run its course.

Quietly, and devoid of any banter, Peta inquired, “And what if I want to re-pot my roots in your garden?”

This was when Tony's heart was too busy competing in the Olympic long jump, too busy to pay attention to the fine details of this conversation, though it did its best. “I would love that.”

Look, the thing was: he had promptly washed his hands from his childhood home after.... you know– after he was no longer a child, shunting it away from his mind. He moved to Malibu, built this place, uprooted his entire life to suit the style he so desperately ran to. ‘Cause his old place wasn't a home anymore. Not for him, anyway. But for Peta, it could be. It _should_ be. 

And maybe if– maybe if he had something left to cherish in the bed of ill-forgotten memories, he could tend to her roots also. 

“Plus, it helps ease my conscience a little bit.”

Peta laughed in delight. “Using my own words against me – that's mean.”

Tony wasn't one to beat around the bush. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

* * *

  
Before she moved into his old mansion, Tony tentatively broached the subject of replacing the arc reactor with something more sustainable. He and Peta tinkered with the variables, polishing and refining it, and then the time came for to perform the operation, as it were. 

His fingers made to undo the buttons of his shirt and strip for her – not exactly how his lecherous brain fantasised about, but Tony was refusing to entertain that part of him – but Peta's hands to rest over his. Wordlessly, Tony granted her consent, and she undressed him. 

He laid down on the table, and watched her remove the casing of the one they made in Afghanistan.

Peta adorned a saccharine, dreamy expression. “I have been dreaming about your electromagnet.”

Tony couldn't stop the grin her words prompted if he tried. “Oh, really?”

“Are you kidding? Your heart and I go way back.”

His laughter rippled, jostling his chest. Unbidden, his mind sang, _f_ _inders keepers_ , like he was fucking four. Regardless, she found it; he belonged to her now.

It was one of the most intimate moments of his life – and, coming from a guy who had no shortage of intimate moments, that was saying something.

“All done,” she declared proudly as she made the final connect, the new arc reactor slotting into place. “What do you want to do with the old one?”

Tony shrugged. “Toss it. Burn it.” His hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second. “Keep it. It still functions, so you can always reuse it. And it's clean, so– good for the environment.” He was really selling this. _Way to go, Stark._

Peta's inhale was strangled, and she was looking down at him like he had just given her the key to the universe. “I can keep it? You– you trust me to keep it?”

The notion that he didn't trust was, in a word, _preposterous_. The fact that she was unaware just how much he trusted her made him feel sad. 

“I'd trust you with anything. Anything of mine.” _And me_ , he managed to resist adding. Some things just didn't need to be reiterated. Besides, didn't actions speak louder than words?

Speaking of words – Peta uttered none before grabbing a conveniently placed pen from the table beside her, lifting up his hand to jot something down on the skin on the back. 

“Is that your phone number? 'Cause you know J.A.R.V.I.S. already got that for me.” 

“Wow. Tony Stark is a secret stalker. The press would have a field day,” she joked. “And no, it is not my phone number.” She withdrew once she was done, giving Tony the use of his hand back. He could have sneaked a peek as to the handwriting littering his hand, but he refrained. He'd rather hear it from her. “It's my web formula.”

His breath caught in his throat at the implicit trust Peta was granting him, rewarding him with. 

“Peta, you don't have to–”

“I want to,” she stressed. “I want you to have my trust, too.”

Tony didn't know what to say, how to accurately convey the depth of emotion swelling up in his breast. “Thank you,” was all he could say, hoping her spider senses would translate. 

* * *

  
“How do you feel about icicle webs?”

“Icicle...?” she sleepily repeated, incredulous.

“Yes. Your webs combined with a little Jack Frost,” he said, mind constantly churning out bright new ideas. “How would you feel about that?”

Faraway, he heard a feeble, “I was asleep five seconds ago.” And then wrapped up in a yawn, “Are you tinkering with my web formula at five in the morning?”

“Technically, it's only two in the morning here.”

Peta's tired chuckle felt like he'd won the lottery – or something suitably cheesy to that effect. Don't judge him. 

Thus, a ritual was born. Every night before they departed in search of a mysterious land called _sleep_ , Tony called Peta or she called him, the other's voice gently lulling them on their journey to unconsciousness. More often than not, Tony was the one left awake. He blamed it on their time difference when in actuality, it was because he was reluctant to switch his brain off, some small part of himself still expecting him to blink awake in that cave 

Case in point: tonight. The day was dark, and Tony couldn't sleep. Staccato hypnic jerks coupled with high stress levels denied his ascension into unconsciousness, the sense of impending doom calling out to him, tensing his muscles, as his belly flops, body falling through the mattress like a black collapsing under its own gravitational mass, sweat clumping clammy strands of hair to his forehead like a terrible fashion statement impersonation, and–

Yeah, Tony decided from then on to just forgo sleep. How hard could it be? 

Instead, he tinkered and messed around with the prototype of his exoskeleton, helpless smile pulling at his lips as he tuned in to Peta regaling him with Spidey anecdotes. 

Through the speakerphone, she chuckled, self-conscious. “I'm sorry. I'm aware that I seemed to be talking – _a lot_. I've never really had anyone to talk to about Spidey stuff, so I might be going a little overboard.”

Tony shook his head, belatedly realising that he couldn't rely on nonverbal cues. “No,” he countered gently. “I like listening to you talk.” For the vast majority of his life, he was the talker, the one who made sure to always snatch the last word. But with Peta, he was perfectly content to buy a rail ticket and hop aboard her train of thought.

Her smile was glaringly evident, magnifying his own, as she said, “Okay.”

* * *

  
Peta's soft, gentle snores filled the lab – the sweetest melody he ever heard. Classical music had nothin' on her. 

Fiddling with the renovations of his Audi R8 – mind a thousand miles away, ruminating on a suit of armour – he almost missed it when her placid dream transformed into a living terror. Her breathing pitched, frantic and worried, incoherent mumbling reminiscent of Yinsen's nightmare back in Afghan. 

Tony said her name. Just once. The effect was instantaneous.

She awoke in what he presumed was a flurry, bed sheets kicked off, heart pounding – _oh, shit, no, that was Tony's_ – hyperventilating. Peta said his name in a strangled plea.

“I'm here, sweetheart,” he murmured softly, the pet name falling from his open mouth free of resistance. “It's okay, I'm here. You're safe.”

Reassurances spilled from his lips, a litany of calming phrases and collocations aiming to put her mind at ease as best he could while on the other side of the country. He wished he had mastered the art of teleportation; he would give anything to be able to hold her. 

Eventually, she stabilised, Tony's words succeeding in grounding her. He stopped her before she could apologise, vehemently stating that it was not her fault, that he was more than happy to help her. 

Okay, maybe that last one was a little too truthful, but she deserved to hear it nonetheless. 

Despite his curiosity as to what prompted the sudden nightmare, he stayed silent. The last thing he wanted was to press the issue, not in light of her recent panic. 

Peta gave an explanation anyway. “You woke up. When Yinsen fitted you with the electromagnet.”

Tony nodded slowly, in spite of the fact that she couldn't see him. “I remember. You were there; you helped me.”

But that was the wrong thing to say. “No, that's not what–” she clamped her jaw shut with an audible click. “You woke up more. A few times after that, and it's like you couldn't see or hear anything around you. All you could feel was the pain.”

Oh. God. 

“And I couldn't help you,” she said, almost growling at her own failing. “I was _powerless_.”

Tony had no memory of it. Then again, that was the thing about suffering. Traumatic somatosensory events were promptly discarded into the cerebral waste bin – a defence mechanism he sure as hell wasn't about to complain about. 

He remembered that first time, though, when he latched on to her like he would die without her.

“I'm sorry,” was all he could say, trite though it may be. In this moment, Tony was feeling pretty powerless; ineffectual. 

“‘s not your fault, Tony.” Now that she was semi-conscious, exhaustion permeated through her tone, the call of sleep near impossible to resist. 

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered, safe in the knowledge that her enhanced hearing would carry her words via J.A.R.V.I.S.

Complying, she did so, and soon enough, the lab was awash with her sleep-sounds. 

* * *

  
After hearing Peta's nightmare and subsequent panic attack from J.A.R.V.I.S. nearly three thousand miles away, every cell in his body itched with the need to touch her, to hold her, to soothe her in his arms. Maybe it was just conditioning from the shit they were both subjected to in Afghanistan, or maybe this was just how he expressed affection. His mother would argue with Howard often, and Tony used to comfort her after their routine disputes. Admittedly, he wasn't always very good at it, but sometimes he could make her smile. 

(He wanted to make Peta smile.)

Whatever. Tony wasn't about to dissect his motives. He'd always operated on an _actions first, analysing thought processes later_ basis – it wasn't anything new. 

Besides: he just really wanted to see her. There. That wasn't so terrible, was it? 

With that thought in mind, Tony flew to Manhattan, itching to be with her like some lovesick teenager. 

(God. What the hell happened to him?)

Before long, he arrived in New York, having Happy drive him up to Manhattan and deposit him by his home. He knocked on the door.

She didn't make him wait long. 

Happiness danced along the ridges and slopes of her face, eyes bright and alive as he neared her focus. “Tony?”

“Peta.”

He clutched her tight, tight, tight, smothering her face in the junction of his neck, hand fisting in her hair, nose dipping down to the very minute strands crowning her head. His arms were clamped around Peta's lithe body like vices, refusing to extricate herself from Tony's tyranny.

(God. Look at him. Practically anthropomorphising his own goddamn body language like some Romantic poet desperately searching for self-referential meaning from the gates of hell itself.)

She ushered him in, half-leaning on her as it was. After shutting the door, Peta pulled him back down to her, seeking out his mouth. 

“Can you stay?” she murmured in the brief respite from their kisses, the words painting his lips from how tightly they were intertwined.

Powerless to resist, Tony kissed her again. “Yes,” he said, big grin illuminating his affirmation. “Yeah, I'm gonna stay.”

* * *

  
In the lab his father dominated, Tony built her a camera from scratch. Anything to keep that shine of adoration on her face; anything to get to keep making out with her like he was a freshman at the prom. 

He got to witness first-hand how Spider-Man operated, and he endeavoured to make amendments to her superhero outfit, giving her only the finest equipment, the prototype armour he was working on taking a backseat to this task. 

“What do you think?” he asked, only a little arrogantly. 

Gently, Peta took the glasses off his face and placed them on hers, wide grin dwarfed by his rose-tinted glasses.

Tony's breath hitched at the picture she illustrated. Over the years, he'd seen thousands of men and women execute that same move, wear his property. But the way Peta looked in his specs – oversized, slipping down the slope of her nose – fuck, it was addictive, the thrill shooting straight to the arc reactor, down to the eldritch abyss that housed his electromagnet.

In the end, he didn't bother waiting for her reply. He snatched her mouth before she had a chance to use it. 

* * *

  
You see, Afghanistan marked the first time Tony was forced to recognise the fact that he was an organism, made out of organs and dressed in fleshy overalls. It was the first time he'd come face-to-face with mortality, witnessed the fragility of life. It was just– hard to come to terms with. 

That didn't mean he was going to ignore it. No. He was never going to do that again. Yinsen's sacrifice demanded as much. 

As did Spider-Man. Peta made him want to better, and he fervently swore he would do his best to uphold.

It was ironic how different they were. Polar opposites, you could say. Peta was a proud member of the proletariat; Tony was the entire reason why Karl Marx penned the _Communist Manifesto_. It wasn't just their financial differences that credited his speculations, either. Peta was the human manifestation of his antithesis – everything he was not, she was: kind, brave, self-effacing, honourable and, last but not least, an honest-to-God superhero. 

And what the hell was Tony?

But barring all that, they had shared life experiences, shared emotions, shared motives. She understood him on an atomic level. More importantly: he got her back.

Put simply: he wanted to be like Spider-Man. He wanted to be with Peta Parker.

Therein lay the conundrum. Tony was fucking falling. 

* * *

  
They slept on the same bed, exactly as in Afghanistan. 

One such morning, Peta hummed lazily, bedroom eyes so innocent, mouth swollen from the blunt press of his teeth. “You smell good.”

Fascinated, he asked, “What do I smell like?”

She ghosted at the junction of his shoulder, mouthing at the skin, relishing in the slight shudder she caused. Peta hummed. “You smell like me.”

Tony rolled over, caging her on his bed, dancing delicate little kisses and sloppy love bites along every inch of skin he was welcome to.

She giggled at his antics. “Now I smell like you.”

Hm. Looked like his job was complete. 

* * *

  
Every time, he meant to leave, meant to only stay twenty-four hours, just long enough to get his fix, but then she walked around wearing his crisp-white shirt he was wearing the day before – the one with his initials stitched on the back, engraving the nape of her neck whenever she leant back – and he went crazy. _Fuck_.

Because he didn't want to leave. Not her. Never her. 

* * *

  
Tony waited up for Spider-Man. One hour bled into two, bled into four, bled into eight, bled into _panic_ –

J.A.R.V.I.S. interrupted his miniature – or, rather, maximised – anxiety attack to deliver news Tony really could have done without knowing. 

The epic showdown between Spider-Man and Green Goblin dominated every television outlet, every word out of a reporter's mouth a concern for the Masked Menace: _who was last seen falling from the sky._

Peta's status: unknown. 

And that was a giant fucking worry. 

Screw it. Tony was driving straight into fucking FEAR territory, a fear he hadn't felt since 1991 flooding his system. 

His worry abated only when Spidey made a grand entrance in their home – his home, her home, _the_ home. 

“What the hell happened?” he said, doing his best to keep his fear in check. Perhaps it didn't work as well as he thought it would. 

“Eh,” Peta said, taking off her mask. Relief eased his muscles when her head showed no signs of contusions. “I was a little slower than usual.” Her eyes narrowed on the news still playing on the background. “And apparently I have risen from the dead. Huh. Nobody bothered to tell me that.”

This should have been the moment Tony would crack a joke at her expense, ribbing her in good humour. In this moment, stupid quips were the least appealing thing in the entire world. 

As though sensing his anxiety, Peta's own amusement wilted, Afghanistan playing on repeat in both of their heads. She pressed the spider emblem of the suit Tony fashioned for her, and she peeled it off, only a tank top and shorts left on her person. 

Her hand came to rest on her abdomen. 

Tony cleared his throat. “Can I take a look?” he asked, indicating to her injuries. After a beat, Peta relented, making to sit on the sofa. He joined her. 

“I'm going to need to remove your top.” 

“Knew you just wanted me half-naked,” she joked, strained. Glancing at her, he could see the cracks chipping away at her façade, pain leaking through. 

“I'm just going to check you out– check your injuries out,” he amended without so much as a blink. 

Peta chuckled. “I'll let that Freudian slip slide.” She smiled at the neat alliteration, pleased with herself.

“Don't bring Freud into this.” With nimble fingers, he tenderly lifted her shirt up and over her head, eyes honing in on the mottle of bruises splattering her chest and abdomen. 

Wryly, she said, “It looks worse than it is.”

Tony swallowed. “Well, this certainly is _worse_.” He did his best to shunt his worry to one side. Yeah, he didn't really succeed.

Her ribs were bruised black and blue. With shaky fingers, he reached out to touch the healing contusions, the inflammation burning under his calluses. She hissed at the hint of contact, and Tony retracted his fingers, apologies falling from his lips.

“It's fine,” she insisted weakly. “I'm already healing.”

He nodded, trying to reign in traitorous emotion. Peta laced her fingers with his. They stayed like that until the heart palpitations stopped threatening his electromagnet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you guys enjoyed it. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you thought :)


	4. Iron Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all is said and done, Peta and Tony finally christen their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! :) So sorry that this has taken me so long to write. I've been busy with going back to uni and stuff, but I am back now and settled in (and already procrastinating once again). 
> 
> Finally. The long-awaited smut is in this chapter. (Will make no promises as to whether it's good or not.)
> 
> I cannot believe this is the end of this fic. I just want to say a big, massive THANK YOU to everyone who has commented and kudosed (is that a word?) and read this fic. I honestly could not have done this without you all, and this fic would not have survived without your support. 
> 
> I really, really hope you guys enjoy this. :)

Eventually, Tony had to return to the ‘Bu. Just because he'd been effectively ousted as CEO didn't mean he was willing to abandon Stark Industries to the vultures. 

It felt strange, being parted from Peta. Like some part of him was missing, left behind for safekeeping. Try as he might to diffuse the budding, y’know, _thing_ manifesting between them, he was ultimately powerless.

(Was it– was it truly terrible to admit that he fucking _adored_ her?)

They both eagerly maintained contact, J.A.R.V.I.S. relaying their conversations every evening like a good third wheel. Tony busied his mind with upgrading the suit of armour when he wasn't preoccupied with ensuring Peta's safety as Spider-Man. He kept her updated on his efforts and achievements, and she offered little tips of her own that more often than not came in handy. 

Weeks passed with their relationship still progressing, the days bleeding into months. Funnily enough, it was the most poignant relationship he'd ever been involved in. And they weren't even technically really together. 

Peta got a kick out of hearing his exploits the first time he took the suit for a test flight – especially the whole landing fiasco.

“Unfortunately,” he noted dryly. “Neither my piano nor my car escaped unscathed.” Fortunately, he had plenty to spare.

“Oh, shame,” she said teasingly, returning the sentiment. The sarcasm dripped from the tip of every syllable. “How will you cope?”

“You know what would really come in handy right now?”

“What?”

Tony smirked. “That car battery.”

Peta's answering laughter harmonised with the quiet solitude of his lab, and he was unable to resist his anonymous grin. Had to be said: he really did like the sound of her laugh – an even sweeter melody when he was the composer of it.

Jokes kept them afloat; jokes were what bonded them – both during and after Afghanistan. And even before, now that he was thinking about it. 

“Maybe I should come up, and see this creation of yours in action myself.”

Tony's breath hitched. There were words he desperately wanted to say running along the edge of his tongue, just begging to be released. It was only with monumental effort that he managed to reign them in, taking the time to ponder over his answer. 

“Or not,” Peta hastily added a couple seconds after her initial suggestion, no doubt misreading Tony's mostly silent reaction as rejection. 

“No, no,” he said, scrambling to set the record straight. “I'd love that.”

The relief was evident in her tone as she breathed a, “Good. I'll see you soon?”

Tony grinned. Peta Parker was the only thing in the world capable of bringing him joy, such was the scope of her natural power. “Yeah. See you soon.”

* * *

Tensions were rising in Stark Industries, and as the aforementioned _Stark_ partly responsible for said rising tensions, he took it upon himself to rectify the situation. 

In other words: he crashed his own party.

J.A.R.V.I.S. ensured Peta was kept in the loop. After all they had gone through, she was entitled to his absolute trust. There was no one finer who deserved it. 

Peta's old colleague and his last one-night stand, Everhart, supplied him with knowledge far dangerous than any weapon. Sure, she also accused him of personal involvement, but nobody was perfect. 

Someone was dealing Tony's weapons under the table, and, going by Obie's cavalier attitude, he had a pretty good idea who was responsible.

* * *

Let it be said that Tony's assumption was proven correct by compelling information and a crafty Pepper Potts.

Obie's betrayal cut far deeper than those pieces of shrapnel threatening to tear away at cardiac muscle.

Finding out he supplied the Ten Rings with ammunition, and armed them with the knowledge of Peta's alter-ego was even worse. 

“You know,” Obie drawled calmly, as though perusing through a children's story book. “She wasn't even subtle about it. Not in the beginning. I'm almost embarrassed for you that you didn't figure it out after she deliberately crashed your plane into Coney Island.” His chuckle was self-satisfied, fucking _pleased_. “At least it gave me time to hide my part in that whole mess. Adrian Toomes is lucky he doesn't have a big mouth.”

He was behind it all. 

God. _Peta_...

Obie ripped the arc reactor right out of his chest, Tony's beating heart panicking in his ears. Paralysed, all Tony could do was lie there as his body capitulated – muscles trying to seize, trying to spasm but failing even in that.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Obie stood and walked out, leaving Tony to suffer a cruel, merciless cardiac arrest.

* * *

Peta found him crawling on the floor. She was a mere red-and-blue blur in his eyes, hurriedly rushing to his side, a shining blue light in her hand, pushing it into his chest and–

Tony yelped as he was reconnected to the world.

His old arc reactor was in his chest.

“What– you– doing– here?” Tony managed to ask in between greedy little mouthfuls of air, grateful for Peta's strength as she manoeuvred him into sitting upright, leaning into her. 

“J.A.R.V.I.S. told me about Gulmira,” she explained, helping him breathe. “I thought you might need assistance.”

Oh, Tony was seriously going to have words with that confounded A.I. of his. As it was, he was perfectly content in that moment to soak up Peta's presence by his side. 

She was wearing the Spider-Man suit, the mask gripped in her hand. 

“I have to stop him,” Tony declared, the same vengeance born from Afghan running in his blood. “Obie. I have to stop him. He's the one who tried to kill us both.” He stood up.

Peta rose up, too. “I'm coming with you.”

“No, no, no. This is my fight.” Translation: _this is my fault._ “I have to be the one to finish it.”

“I’m sorry, which one of us is currently recuperating from near-asystole?” Peta said sarcastically, taking understandable issue with his unilateral decision. 

“I was nowhere near a cardiac arrest,” he refuted. Already, he could feel his strength returning to him. 

“Oh, so just a myocardial infarction, then?” she retorted, using fancy medical jargon to enhance her stance. It was a trick Tony was deeply familiar with, which was why it wouldn't work on him. 

Refusing to entertain this argument any longer – knowing full well he would probably end up losing – he instead said, “I'm gonna need you to make sure no civilians get hurt.”

Peta would not back down. “Or _you_ can check the civilians, and _I'll_ handle Obie.”

Frustration tore at the back of his throat. “He knows who you are, and he has the suit I built to get escape.”

“And? I don't care if he leaks my identity,” she said, and Tony froze at the implication. “And I can handle the suit.” Here, she hesitated. “What I can't handle is you getting hurt or– or _dying_.”

God. Peta would sacrifice her double life – a double life she had spent her teenage years preserving and protecting – in exchange for his safety. Tony wouldn't allow her to make this transaction, of course, but the very fact that she would willingly trade for him choked him up. 

Just as she had anointed him her top priority, she was his. Perfectly symbiotic. 

“ _With great power comes great responsibility_ , right?” Tony recited. Maybe it was unfair for him to deploy those words against her, but the prospect of Peta dying because of his plethora of mistakes was unthinkable. “This is my fault. Let me assume the responsibility.”

He could see the argument wither on her face, decaying before his very eyes. He didn't feel too badly – her life was too important to be wasted trying to undo his mistake.

Finally, she nodded, conceding the fight. 

She helped him into his armour, lifting the heavy metal as though it were lighter than a feather. 

“Wait,” she called suddenly.

Tony turned back, helmet still not shut.

Peta gripped the sides of his face, pressing her mouth on to his. “For good luck,” she said, the call back to their daring escape making his heart beat. “If you die, I'll kill you myself.” The threat lacked any real logic, but Tony appreciated the gesture. 

He kissed her back as hard as he dared before they parted ways. Tony had an ass to kick, anger a feral wolf at his back.

* * *

Well. He did it. He defeated Obie, saved the day, almost died. 

The usual, basically.

(Okay, fine. He had help in the form of Rhodey and Pepper, so he wasn’t doing it _totally_ alone. Even so, he had an aesthetic to uphold.)

He came back to consciousness a few hours after the whole, y'know, electrocution. The beep of his heart radiated throughout his medical room. For a tiny second, his mind hurtled him back to Afghanistan, to when he awoke with nothing but an electromagnet and a car battery, awful memories swirling in his brain, trying desperately to find–

Peta was sitting at his bedside. 

In the evening light, tears rolled down her cheeks. Tony itched to mouth them away for her.

“I thought you were dead,” she said softly, brimming with tentatively restrained emotion. 

His smile was little more than a wince, and that was if you were being kind. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Peta kissed him: harsh and desperate. He spared a fleeting thought for the roughness of his beard on her skin. In his mouth, broken, she muttered, “I would kill for you.”

The gravity of what she had bestowed upon him – the raw strength and power charging her words, lacing her conviction as she asserted that she would abandon her principles if he so desired – made his heart palpate. The heart monitor revealed as much. 

She would tarnish the very foundation upon which Spider-Man was crafted in his name. 

_His_ name. The name of a man who had for years profaned his integrity for hollow, meaningless thrills. 

Tony's scruples had long since hopped a one-way flight to Ibiza, never to return. His misgivings over taking another's life had severely depleted over the years as S.I. reaped military deals and supplied the U.S. Army with WMDs. But _sacrifice_ – actively taking his own life in place of someone else's... now, that was a foreign concept. Tony was a selfish, selfish man, after all.

Peta was a far better person than he could ever dream to be. 

Nevertheless:

“I would give my life for yours,” he murmured, baby-soft. 

Would you look at that? Tony would die and Peta would kill: the Merchant of Death and the Masked Menace. 

Like he said before – perfectly symbiotic. 

“So.” Tony swallowed, and even the minimal amount of effort it took to do that sapped all the strength he had left. “Give it to me straight, ‘cause this is important: how pathetic do I look right now?”

Peta curled up against his side, being careful not to jostle his IV. With a soft smile, she appraised him, brown eyes running all over his face. 

“You look really pathetic,” she whispered fondly, hair reaching up to brush back strands of hair. “It's honestly so sad. I'm super embarrassed for you.” With that same hand, she reached down to grasp one of his, bringing it up to her lips and softly grazing his knuckles. 

Tony laughed, the action upsetting his chest. Peta did her best to gentle the pain, kissing his forehead ever so delicately. 

* * *

The next day Tony and Peta were summoned to S.I. HQ with a press conference and an alibi.

Pepper and Rhodey were informed as to his double life, and Tony trusted them both with his secret. 

“Spider-Man has been reported assisting _Iron Man_ and keeping civilians out of danger.” Agent Coulson's eyes were far too crafty for Tony's liking. 

“Really, Spider-Man was spotted? Huh.” Peta's effort was abysmal. “That's so weird.”

“We need to work on your lying skills,” Tony muttered under his breath, knowing full well she could hear him. 

And indeed she had. Peta stepped closer under the guise of straightening his suit jacket. “Excuse you, my lying skills are impeccable,” she whispered.

They really weren't. 

He said as much. “They really aren't.”

“Oh, then how ‘bout this: Tony Stark is a devilishly handsome genius, and I lay awake at night – every night – lusting after him.” 

Tony kissed her on the cheek, short and sweet. “Cute.”

Agent Coulson did not appreciate their antics, clearing his throat. Peta stepped away as if she had been burnt, appearing marginally embarrassed. Meanwhile, Tony was busy admiring how good she looked in that shade of red.

“Ms. Parker," Coulson said. "As Spider-Man's unofficial photographer, I presume you have foreknowledge on his actions.”

Tony levelled a hard stare at Coulson, warning him against his implication. He stepped closer to her. 

Peta blinked. “You would presume correct,” she said slowly. “Maybe.”

Coulson backed down. “As of right now, Spider-Man is not a primary concern of S.H.I.E.L.D. If anything changes, I trust we can count on your support.”

With that, he left.

Peta hummed. “He's a nice guy.”

Tony frowned. “He's an agent.” For the record, that wasn't envy in his tone. Definitely not. In any case, his non-existent envy was shortly remedied by her tongue down the back of his throat. 

With a noticeable spring in his step, he hopped on the podium and took to the stage once more.

* * *

_Truth is: I am Iron Man._

Even as the audience that had previously condemned him roared at his reveal, Peta smiled at him.

He smiled back.

* * *

When all was said and done, swimming his way out of story-hungry journalists, Tony proffered Peta his arm. “Shall we?”

She took it gladly. “Why, thank you, Iron Man.”

She was there and smiling and so breath-takingly gorgeous Tony wanted to keep her on his arm indefinitely. She meant more to him than anything in this world. Material possessions, prized art collections and an armada of highly-sought-after motor vehicles, paled in comparison. 

During Afghanistan, Tony's feelings grew – unchecked – for three months. Adding the six months since, it was no wonder he was head-over-heels. T’was to be expected, really.

“Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark! Can I grab a quote from you about your reasons for being Iron Man?”

Ah, yes. _Vanity Fair._ Spoken as though she hadn't just implied he was a poor excuse for a superhero. 

At Everhart's interruption, Peta wound an arm tight around Tony's back. On his chest, she placed her palm dead-centre. Tony could feel the raw strength restrained within her touch – guarding him. 

_Possessive_ over him. 

His muscles flexed under her palm, and even through the layers of his three-piece suit, he could feel the raw power behind her touch, and he felt strangely protected. Cherished. Like he was someone worth keeping safe. 

Primal triumph blazed a trial through his heart, white-hot molten gold liquefying his intestines, and he pressed her more fully against him as she, with all her strength, relented under his pressure. 

“No comment,” Tony said smartly, loving when Peta hid her smile into his neck.

* * *

Tony drove them both back to his mansion, showing off for her in the very car he _accidentally_ sat on and destroyed. Come to think of it – could he technically blame Iron Man for that? Meh, he was going to. 

They had barely gotten inside before they were on one another, desperate to leave their mark. Tony's brain made a commendable effort in managing to remain coherent long enough to usher into his private bedroom before immediately falling on top of her. 

Hey, he tried. 

She gripped his hands in hers and reverently placed them on her body. 

The message was implicitly clear.

Peta spent much of her formative teenage years fighting crime, learning to equate touch with pain, and Tony desired nothing more than to deprogram that algorithm from her memory banks – show her that touch could be trusted, could be _pleasant_.

Inspired, Tony grinned: sharp and wicked. “This is going to be the best sex of your life.”

For some reason, Peta looked unsure in the face of his promise. “And you?” She bit her lip. “I want this to be the best sex for you, too.”

He felt the electromagnet twinge with his heart. “Oh, honey.” His hand cupped her face, brushing his thumb against the apple of her cheek. “It's with you. It's already the best sex of my life.”

* * *

Tony unwrapped Peta like the most treasured possession, kissing every inch of skin available to him. His mouth lingered on the curve of her neck, his teeth caught on her hardening nipples as he journeyed down south, his tongue dipped low. 

Peta was a sonnet. Tony lacked the grace to pen a rhyme grand enough to do her justice.

His lips trailed down low, hovering over her, mouth a hairsbreadth away from her entrance. His mouth watered; his intent clear.

Peta's very inhalations trembled, her exhalations a force to be reckoned with. 

“You trust me?” Tony asked, holding eye contact, needing to hear her say it. 

Her bottom lip was ensnared by her teeth, and the sight made his head swim. “Yes,” she responded, high and pleading. “God, Tony, _please_!”

That final plea – sounding so agonisingly ravaged, at his mercy and he hadn't even gotten started yet – eradicated the last remnant of Tony's self-control. 

Maintaining eye contact, he went down on her. He started by teasing the inside of her thighs, sucking marks on the soft skin presented to him, taking special care to mark the way her breath hitched, filing her reactions away for future reference. His beard scraped against her flesh, and she gasped out a frantic, “Tony!”

His nose brushed against her clit as his tongue savoured her essence, her flavour. Her legs were in a constant war between opening and closing, and Tony was content to smooth and passage the sweet trembles of her thighs. 

Tony was still buttoned up in his tailored suit like a proper gentleman while his mouth was preoccupied with making his girl writhe in pleasure. 

He had slicked his hair back for the press conference, and now her hands were ruining that picture-perfect image he presented, her fingers reflexively twisting and tightening in direct response to the flick of his tongue. Her hips rocked in accordance with his rhythm. He couldn't hold back his moan when she yanked his hair just so. 

(What? He had a thing for his hair – it was his literal hair trigger.)

He hoped he looked as debauched as he felt, so magnificently wrecked by her. 

Her legs came to rest upon his shoulders. Her thighs clenched around his head, and he spared a passing thought for his skull, trapped by all that power. 

Peta begged him to stop before he could lead her to the grand finale. “I need you, Tony. Need to feel you in me,” she gasped. 

Tony pressed a tender kiss on her swollen nub before withdrawing – knowing that, just as her taste still flooded his mouth, he had left his own imprint on her body. He crawled on top of her like a predator, noting with great satisfaction how ruined she looked at his hand. Her eyes were hooded, glazed, face flushed an alluring shade of pink, pupils blown black with desire. 

Peta surged upward to capture his lips in a passionate kiss. His beard was dripping with her slick. Her tongue slipped into his mouth – licking away the very taste of her in and amongst his saliva. 

Firmly, she pushed him back, and Tony obeyed. She undressed him with none of the practiced movements he exhibited earlier – practically ripping the buttons of his shirt clean off – and Tony grinned wolfishly at her, lust coagulating in his blood stream, invigorating him. 

Before long, they were both adorned in their birthday suits. Tony made to get the condoms, but stopped when she grasped her wrist. 

“No,” she said instantly. “I just want you. Please? I need to feel you.”

Damn. It'd been a while since Tony'd barebacked, and the allure was damn near impossible to resist – especially because it was Peta practically begging for it.

“Remember,” he hastened to add, requiring her absolute consent. “If this is too much, you can change your mind at any time.” 

“I know,” she replied. “You can, too.”

Oh, there was no universe in which he would ever change his mind. 

Tony assumed the lotus position – sitting up straight, back to the headboard and crossed his legs. He patted his thighs, inviting her to sit on his lap. 

(Yeah, missionary was the standard for a reason, but he had the feeling she would appreciate the intimacy and closeness this position would provide. Plus, he kinda fancied the full body contact, too.)

Peta wasted no time, scurrying over and making to sit on top. He took his cock in hand, lining himself up, and waited for her signal. 

“Kiss me,” he ordered, gruff. Peta followed his command to the letter, allowing him to set the pace, tongue demanding entrance.

As she sank down on the length of him, she gasped into his open mouth. He had barely even entered her, and yet she already felt so good, it was incredible – _she_ was incredible. But this was her first time, and he wanted her to set the tone. Her comfort was far more important than his satisfaction. 

Peta kissed him again. Carefully, she lowered down once more, an inch at a time, until he bottomed out. 

Tony couldn't resist his groan. 

“Feels... I don't know how to describe it.” Without waiting for a reply, her hand trailed down the length of his body, snug against her own, until it rested on where they joined, gingerly touching the base of his cock. “Feels like you.”

“Yeah,” Tony responded with a voice like gravel. He removed the hand around her ass, placing it on top of hers. “It's me.” 

With his other hand on her hip, he encouraged her to grind on him, fighting against every instinct in order to let her set the pace. Her movements were awkward and discordant, eventually settling into a slow rhythm he conducted.

There was something like victory in the knowledge that Peta was allowing him to be the first person to be with her like this. Like he was worthy, almost – not in the sense that she was some prize to be won; but that _she_ found _him_ worthy to touch her, to get to see her like this, so intimately, so privately. 

He felt, in that moment, like their bodies were utterly in sync – their breathing, the beat of their hearts, even the respective digestion systems. Maybe it was a trite notion, a fool's way of thinking. Still, that's how he felt. 

Peta kissed his face, his cheek, lips teasing down his neck the way she knew drove him crazy. Watching her react to the pleasure of their bodies, watching as she grew bolder and more confident under his guidance, was absolutely intoxicating. 

“God, Tony,” she keened, high, throwing her head back for good measure. In retaliation, Tony took advantage, nibbling down the column of her throat. “You feel. So good.”

He smirked at her broken sentence. Emboldened, he snaked a free hand downward, deftly toying with her clit with an expertise many could only dream of. 

(Yes, Tony was _just_ that confident in his abilities, thank you very much.)

He pulled out every trick he knew, manipulating the pace and rhythm on her clit as she bounced on his cock. The sharp press of his teeth on her neck made her gasp out loud, hand instinctively flying to his hair, rifling through it in pleasure. 

Virginity was nothing more than an archaic social construct, yet he couldn't deny there was a certain pride in being the first person Peta trusted enough to see her like this. Hopefully, he would also be the last person to see her like this – her one and only – as they made love.

Gah. Never in a million years did he think he would be one of those mawkish fools who described the act of _sex_ as _making love_ , yet here they were. Truthfully, Tony didn't even need the orgasm. The privilege of watching her take pleasure from his body was more than enough. Sex had never been so intimate before; had never meant so much before. 

In that moment, he was putty in her hands, granting absolute control over to her, trusting her with, well, _him_. If she requested he build her a Jericho missile, he would walk into his workshop and start assembling – and he wouldn't do it from scraps, either. 

He knew she was close when she started whimpering close to his ear, legs twitching and shaking around him.

“That's it, honey,” he said in a voice he hardly recognised as his own. “Come for me.”

Ever the perfect student, Peta followed his orders to the letter, babbling his name as she climaxed, walls clenching so deliciously around him. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, utterly spent; her breathing harsh, and she fluttered around him through the aftershocks.

He had stopped while she rested, not wanting to overstimulate her.

“Tony,” Peta whined, right against the raging pulse point in his neck. Her lips teased the skin there, and he felt goosebumps arise as she tried to spur him on. “Please. I want to hear you come.”

Her wish was his command.

Cradling her head in the palm of his hand – keeping her sandwiched against the junction of his neck – he carefully manoeuvred them both until she was spread out under him, her legs still tightly wrapped against his back. 

Hard and fast, he pounded into her, desperately chasing pleasure. His arc reactor pressed violently against her breasts with every jerk of his hips. It didn't take long, the memory of her clenching around him all too visceral. _One, two three, four–_

He came with a wanton moan, snarling into her neck. His body collapsed on top of her, safe in the knowledge that she could carry his heavy burden as he waited for his lungs to stabilise. 

Instinctively and abandoning all logic and reason, Tony declared, “I love you,” hoarse and broken, locked away for safekeeping against her skin.

He felt the vibrations of her laugh dance across their bodies. “I told you,” Peta answered, wondrously smug. “The second after you come.”

The call-back to the very first day they met made his head swim, made them both laugh as they lay recuperating. He rolled off her, slinging a heavy arm about her shoulders, and she immediately snuggled into his side. 

“I feel like I'm having some kind of oxytocin overdose,” Peta said giddily, big grin splitting her face in half. Tony knew his was probably worse off, wearing his big dopey, goofy smile like a fashion disaster. “You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Tony mouthed, breathless. His smile showed no signs of stopping. “I do.”

Thoughtful, she gently placed her thumb on his kiss-swollen bottom lip, slowly tracing it. “Tony?” she whispered as though in a trance. 

Tony hummed a question, too sex-dazed to transform noises into syllables.

She smiled. “I love you, too.”

Her thumb danced with his slow-moving grin as her words registered through the nebulous haze of the afterglow. Peta leaned down, ducking her head, and kissed him.

* * *

Under the dwindling light of the sun, they took a stroll out by the beach. Peta was dressed only in his crisp white shirt, not even bothering to button herself up.

As they walked along the shoreline, his eyes kept wandering down the path of his very shirt on her back, the material dancing along her thighs with every step. Fuck, did he love the way she looked in his clothes. He could look at her like that for the rest of his life.

Tony was stark-raving naked, because why the hell should he not be? This was his private land, after all. Modesty would suit him ill. 

Their silhouettes ghosted behind them as they were backlit by the burning orange of the sun, fingers loosely joined, hips occasionally swaying and bumping into each other. 

In silence, they meandered on. Well, in silence and the gentle lull of the sea beside them. It was nice being able to bask in her presence; it was nice not needing to have to talk. 

Peta came to a gradual halt, wild hair succumbing to the call of the wind as she overlooked the water, looking at the reflection of a dying sun. Tony came to a stop beside her, their sides touching. 

He wondered what she was thinking. 

When she turned to look at him, Peta was wistful, nostalgic. She placed a hand over the arc reactor, over his heart. “Yinsen would be proud of you.”

Overcome with emotion at her words, Tony framed her face with both hands, and kissed their foreheads together with a fierceness he wouldn't have thought possible. Peta carded her fingers through his messy hair – the wide expanse of her smile was impossibly big at this close a range. 

“God, I love you,” he said, ragged. At their proximity, his own carbon dioxide came rushing back to greet him. 

His heart felt repaired for the first time since Afghanistan – hell, probably even before then, if he were being completely honest – when she reciprocated.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this story! I hope you guys enjoyed it! :)


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